The Cult of Light and Lies:
One night and one stupid mistake turned the life of suburban
housewife and mother Tilley Jenkins into a prison of paranoia and fear. Dancing
and drinking on a rare girl’s night out, feeling young and sexy, she flirts
with a man she met briefly. Before she knows it she’s had too much to drink and
no way home. She wakes in the morning and finds herself in bed with him, the
first man she’s slept with, besides her husband, in twenty-five years. Her
guilt spirals her down the pathway of depression and alcoholism while her
spirited and popular daughter rebels and falls into the hands of neighbors
involved in a powerful and outlandish cult. Tilley gets the shock of her life
when she encounters the cult members and their strange beliefs as she fights to
regain the trust and love of her daughter and regain her own self-esteem in the
process.
About Lynn Hones
Lynn Hones is a wife of 23 years and mother of two wonderful daughters. She owns an Old English Sheep dog and a Catahoola Cur. She is owned by two rescued cats, Bella and Phantom. Formerly a cat-hater, she hangs her head in shame and adores her furry purr babies. She lives in a large, drafty century home near Lake Erie and loves nothing better than grabbing an armful of books and heading to the beach. She combs the beaches for beach glass and makes jewelry out of it. A native Ohioan, she is a Buckeye fan and has been known to scream out "OH" to anyone wearing an Ohio State jersey, waiting for their reply of, "IO." She loves to write and chew massive amounts of bubblegum. Preferably at the same time.
- File Size: 432 KB
- Print Length: 210 pages
- Publisher: eXtasy Books (July 1, 2010)
READ AN EXCERPT
The claustrophobic waiting room of the clinic loomed gray in front of Tilley and she pushed her Pierre Cardin sunglasses over her recent blonde highlights for a clearer view. She quickly scanned and deemed the people sitting on the dirty, yellow and green plastic chairs lowlifes, a populace with no proper upbringing or moral standards.
They peered toward her and she sensed their gaze as her manicured French tips tapped on the sliding glass window separating the receptionist from this doomed third class. She smiled at the wretched woman with the Joanne Worley bouffant and bright, blue eye shadow that opened the frosted glass window. Without glancing at her, Ms. Worley thrust a clipboard her way and instructed Tilley to fill out the top portion and return it when done. “Thank you,” Tilley said. The woman had already slid the divider shut between them and didn’t hear her. “Thornsom.” A technician peaked out from a nearby door. A morbidly obese man rose with the help of a metal walker and slowly made his way over. His breath, heavy and labored, he stopped his shuffling gait occasionally to rest. Tilley smiled at him, until a whiff of his unwashed body caused her to fight a gag reflex. She sat in the seat he vacated, took her reading glasses from her purse and placed it next to her. A mental note to change her pants before she sat on anything at home, lest she transfer the previous owner’s stench to her furniture, coursed through her mind. “That’s my dad, who just went in.” A toothless, frighteningly thin, middle-aged woman, seated next to Tilley, glanced her way. “Really.” She feigned interest. “I hope he’s not too sick.” She didn’t want to talk to the woman, but couldn’t be rude. “Naw, just a test for his sugar is all.” The woman’s brown, greasy hair and dirty fingernails nauseated Tilley and she went back to her form. “I’m his caregiver full-time now since he took sick.” Tilley bit at her upper lip and cast her a sidelong gaze. “How nice.” “You here fer yerself?” the woman persisted. “Yes. I…um…need to…I’m doing some research. I should do this quickly.” Her stare traveled to the clipboard in her lap and she hoped the polite suggestion to end the conversation would register with her annoying neighbor. Thankfully, she took the hint and Tilley finished her paperwork. She stood and handed it back to the receptionist. “I like your hair,” Tilley told her. She figured anyone who took the time to pile her tresses that high deserved a compliment. “Sit and we’ll call you,” she told Tilley, cracking her gum, but not a smile. After what seemed an eternity, she heard her name. “I’m Here.” She grabbed her purse and held her breath as she passed the heavyset, old man who exited the exam room. She cringed when the room she entered reeked of his odor and held her stomach as she lowered herself onto a chair. Two sharp raps hit the door and she startled. A young man sporting a long, black ponytail and the tattoo of a skull and cross bone on his neck, walked in. He closed the door while staring at a form in an open notebook. “What can I do for you?” he asked, not raising his head. “I…” God, she hated this. “I…um…think I need to have an AIDS test and probably any other tests for venereal disease you can think of.” This drew his scrutiny away from the form and over to her. “I had an encounter and want to be sure I’m clean of anything contagious.” Disinterested or distracted, she couldn’t decide which, he stared back at the paper to jot down a note. “Did he use a condom?” He continued writing. “I don’t know…um, no,” she said. The tattooed man wrote with his left hand, curling it around the pen. He continued scribbling. She wondered what in the hell demanded his attention to this prolonged missive. A long, suffering sigh later and with a larger degree of impatience than she intended, she spoke. “Are you a doctor?” “I’m a nurse practitioner.” He picked his head up and made cold eye contact with her. “When was the encounter?” “The what?” “The sexual encounter, ma’am. When did you have sex?” “Last week.” Subdued by his manner, her sentence came out flat, emotionless. “The encounter was last week.” “You’re married, I see.” He checked something off the form. “This person someone other than your husband?” He surveyed her through eyes, not quite dead, but ones that had seen plenty of life and not the prettier side. “Yes,” Tilley answered shamefaced. “Did you ask the man about his past before you…” “Are these questions really necessary?” A hot flash came on and she grabbed a nearby magazine to fan herself. “I need blood work done, not a lecture.” “I’m going to get a blood technician in as soon as I can,” he said calmly. “As you know, this is a free clinic and all tests are confidential. You’ll receive your results when you call a number we give you.” “Great.” She loosened up. “I didn’t mean to get testy, it’s just, I’m not used to all this.” Her arms spread wide. “I never come to this area. It’s so…well, you know?” A hard expression on his face, he smirked. “So what? So beneath you?” He cocked his head and watched her quizzically, waiting for an answer. “I didn’t mean it like that.” She squirmed and swallowed. “I know what you meant, lady. We see your kind all the time. You don’t want the ladies at the bridge club to know your dirty little secrets, so you come to us to get VD tests done. Don’t worry, your covert rendezvous is safe with us. Please leave a generous donation though, okay.” He clicked his pen closed and gave her a snide smile. Too stunned to talk, Tilley stared at his back as he turned and left. Launching a formal complaint against the young man and his treatment of her, would teach him a lesson, but she figured no one would give a damn anyway. After the technician drew her blood, she went to the lobby, deliberately ignoring the donation envelopes. Tears brimmed in her nervous eyes and shame gave her a sleazy lap dance, all the while laughing at her stupidity and ineptitude. Her false sense of well-being shattered by one snarky man making unfair and uncalled assessments of her as a woman. Oh, well. A whore by any other name would still smell like a whore. I belong right where I am. In the slums Chapter Two One Week Earlier Get those disgusting things off the table! My God, are you trying to kill all of us? This family is filled with geeks, I swear!” Tilley's slippers scraped the tile floor on her way to a not anticipated, but much-appreciated half-full pot of coffee while, Mica, her oldest daughter, wasted no time filling her in on the latest catastrophe of the home front. “Mom, I hope you're prepared to deal with an outbreak of scurvy or some other disgusting plague of biblical proportion.” Still glowing in gratitude, someone other than herself, made a pot of coffee. She smiled and emptied two packs of pink sweetener into her cup. “Scurvy, huh? Is this your way of saying we need oranges?”Mica let fly the weary, exasperated sigh of a seventeen-year-old dealing with an inept parent and leaned against the counter. Her arms crossed, head cocked, her long, dark brown hair falling into her face. “Fine, Mom, joke, see if I care.” Tilley's youngest daughter, Trisha, sat at the kitchen table, on the verge of tears. Her lower lip puckered and her chin quivered. “What's wrong, sweetie? Why are you so upset?” Tilley walked over, knelt next to her and kissed her plump cheeks, breathing in her divine, six-year-old scent. “Mica told me to take my pets off the table.” |
“Your pets, honey?” Tilley looked around, confused. “What pets?”
“Mom, she has gross, dead earthworms in that box.” Mica exaggerated each word and the crescendo of the individual syllables pierced Tilley's eardrums.
“They're not dead,” Trisha said. She held in her hands a small, white gift box and as she opened the lid Tilley saw a mass of dead worms lying on the cotton. “They're hibernated.”
“Trisha, Mommy doesn't want you to put worms on the kitchen table, okay, honey? Take them out back.”
Indignantly, she turned toward Tilley. “They are going to turn into cocoons and then they will turn into butterflies. We learned it at school. I want to keep them until they are butterflies.”
“Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry, but speaking in metamorphic terms, that's not going to happen.” Tilley brushed Trisha's blonde, wispy bangs from her pale, yet strikingly, bright blue eyes.
“Told you, stupid,” Mica said, in triumphant glee.
“Please listen to yourself, Mica. You‟re frickin' seventeen and arguing with a six-year-old.” Tilley stood, feeling her knees crack and she pulled out a chair as tiny dots swam in front of her face.
“Oh, and Mom, another thing. I'm going to kill Jade. I'm really going to do it this time. She's an idiot. Why'd you have to have her?”
As if on cue, Tilley's twelve-year-old, middle daughter, Jade walked into the fray.
“Why are you going to kill me this time?” She nudged a chair away from the table with her hip, grabbed the Fruit Rings off the counter and sat next to Trisha.
“What's in the box, squirt?” Jade asked. Her older sister's rant of the moment ignored, she poured milk into her bowl of
cereal.
“They're dead earthworms, dear,” Tilley said. “Do you want yours fried or scrambled?”
“I'm going to totally barf,” Mica yelled. “You know, we could all get, like, e-coli from those repulsive creatures sitting on our table. We could all die and you're making jokes.”
Jade added more milk and Mica smirked at her. “You better make that skim milk, chubbo.”
This upset Tilley. “Do not call her that. Do you hear me? She isn't chubby.” Jade, at age twelve, still carried baby fat on her short body and Tilley hated when tall, thin Mica called attention to it.
During this entire exchange, Tilley's husband, Zeke sat with the morning paper and a glass of orange juice in front of him. Oblivious to their early morning biology lesson, he turned the page.
“Trish, please put the worms on the back porch,” Tilley said. “They will be much happier there.”
Mica hovered over Jade with a pair of pants in her hands and she spoke to Tilley as if Jade weren't in the room, so great her disdain.
“Mom, I want you to tell Jade if she ever wears my jeans again I will not be responsible for what I do to her. She wears them, stretches them out with her fat ass, then she folds them and puts them in my drawer hoping I won't notice.”
“Jade, do you hear your sister?” Tilley asked.
“Yep,” Jade said. Her dark blonde hair hung in her eyes, and she pushed it behind her ears to see the morning comics more clearly. “I sure did.” She crunched her Fruit Rings apathetically.
“Don't wear her jeans, okay.”
“Kay,” Jade mumbled.
Incredulous, Mica stared. “God, Mom, thanks. It's so obvious you love Jade more than me. She gets whatever she wants and she never gets in trouble. I'm so sick of it.”
“You're finally catching on?” Tilley said. She gave Mica a Cheshire cat smile, leaned back in her chair and cupped her coffee, sipping it slowly.
“I'm so gone.” Mica grabbed her backpack and headed out.
“Don't forget your absent note for yesterday,” Tilley yelled. “I put it on the dryer.”
“I got it,” Mica screamed.
“You're welcome,” Tilley called. When the back screen door slammed shut, she cringed.
Zeke finished his coffee and told Jade and Trish to get a move on or they'd be late. He kissed Tilley on the lips and reached for her breast, glancing at the kids to make sure they weren't looking.
“Knock it off.” A serene smile played on her lips as she pushed his hand away.
Backpacks grabbed off the counter, lunches in hand, Tilley kissed them all goodbye before heading upstairs to brush the taste of the red wine from the night before from her mouth. A hot shower later, she took her vitamins, three Advil and popped a mint. Ready to face another day, she headed out the door for work.
Tilley concentrated on getting some invoices completed for a shipment from the antique store she worked at part-time, her mind swam deeply in numbers. Her phone rang and she reached to answer it. “Hey, Michelle.” The phone in the crook of her neck, she continued with her work.
“Hi, Tilley. I‟m calling to see if you're busy tonight?”
“It depends.” She yawned for affect, in hopes if Michelle had something boring planned she could feign exhaustion.
“Ya know, you never go out with us girls anymore. We're going to dinner and then over to the Landmark for a couple of drinks. You're coming.” Stressing the words the way she did, made them a statement of fact, rather than a question.
Tilley's neighbor, Michelle, renowned for relentlessly badgering people to wear them down, was adamant. Tilley understood her point. She hadn't been to a girl's night out in a long time. The joy of being drunk with a bunch of middle-aged women took its toll on her and she preferred drinking alone.
“You know what, Michelle,” she said, “if you promise me it won't be a real late evening I might consider it.”
A night spent relaxing in front of the television with a glass or two of wine or maybe vodka on the rocks appealed to her more.
“Don't sound so excited,” Michelle said.
“I'm tired and I have a headache, I'm sorry.”
“I'll pick you up at six. Try to rest before that.”
“See you then.” Tilley hung up and moaned.
Is there enough wine in the fridge for a couple of glasses before Michelle picks me up?
A sticky note to pick a bottle up on the way home, stuck to her phone, would remind her.
Lulled from her thoughts by the sound of the bell ringing on the front door, she rose to greet her customer. Quickly removing her reading glasses, she glanced toward the entrance as a tall, striking man of around thirty walked in.
“Hi, can I help you?” Tilley asked. He came closer and she smiled warmly at him.
“Yes,” he began. His head swiveled around left, then right as he took in the furniture filling the store. “I‟m supposed to meet a Mr. or Mrs. Lewis to see a dining room table and chairs.”
“The Lewis' are usually in later in the afternoon, but I can help if you tell me what it is you're looking for.”
His above average man-in-the-street persona struck her first. Dressed in jeans and a red flannel shirt with work boots, he appeared to be a construction worker and his hands, culled from the hard work of, say a carpenter, were big and rough. He possessed the type of face that drew stares not only from desperate, single women, but from wives married for fifty-years and eighty-year-old gray-haired virgin librarians.
Explaining what he wanted, Tilley showed him an antique oak table and chairs.
“These are nice.” He ran his hand over the tabletop and then through his short, dark blond hair, his eyes squinting in thought. “But I was looking for something with a little more wear and tear. I tend to be rough on things.”
He smiled at Tilley and she disgusted herself with an inappropriate mental innuendo.
“I'd be afraid to put a can of Coke on this table.”
“I don't think we have anything else at the moment that fits what you're searching for.” She didn't want to sound ostentatious by telling him they dealt strictly in high-end antiques and he might have better luck at a thrift store or the Salvation Army. “I can call you if something comes in though, if you leave your phone number with us.”
“Great, thanks. I'll do that.” He gave Tilley his number and walked toward the door, when a Gramophone by the exit turned his head. He smiled, his hands on his hips. “Does this thing work?”
“Uh, yeah, would you like to hear it?” On her way over, she caught a subtle smell of soap emitting off him and it comforted her for some odd reason. From a wooden box, she removed an old record and put it on. After a few cranks of the handle on its side, the music started and he grinned. The song, a recording by Bessie Smith from the nineteen-twenties, skipped a few times.
His face beamed as the music began. “I can't believe we're listening to this.”
She faced him. “It's something else, isn't it? I have all her songs on CD's at home, but nothing compares to hearing her voice coming from an old Victrola. It's what it was intended for, after all. No one will ever sing the blues so beautifully again.”
They listened to the scratchy, hollow and yet still strong, sensuous voice coming off the aged record, lost in a world all their own, a world that knew no time. Billy sang about it being nobody's business what she did in her life and they nodded their heads in agreement.
The song ended and he glanced over at her, ready to say something when Tilley talked at the same time. They both laughed and his mirth granted her a view of his stunning smile and white, straight teeth. It only figured that his breath smelled of toothpaste.
“I'm new in town,” he said. “It's great to meet someone helpful. Nowadays, most people don‟t want to give you the time of day. Thanks for letting me listen. I enjoyed that.”
“No problem,” Tilley said. “So, what brings you to our neck of the woods?”
He shrugged his huge shoulders. “I needed a change and I remembered passing through here a while ago and loved the small town feel of this area. I free-lance write, so I have the ability to be a bit of a rolling stone. By the way, do you know of any good restaurants around?”
Without thinking, she blurted, “Funny you should ask. My friends and I are meeting for dinner this evening. You're welcome to join us.”
“I don't want to impose.”
“You won't be imposing, but if you don't want to meet for dinner, meet us at the Landmark. We're going for drinks
afterward. Locals hang there. It's a friendly place with good music on Friday nights. Although I'll warn you, it can get pretty rockin' after-a-while.”
Stupid comments flew out of her mouth when she got nervous and she winced at that one. God, what a nerdy thing to say. I guess I want him to think I was born in the twenties. Why didn't I just say it's the cat's pajamas?
“I still don't know…” he said slowly.
“Stop by if you want. I'll introduce you to some people and maybe you can start to feel more at home.”
“Thanks.” His smile reached out to her before his hand. “I think I'll take you up on that offer.”
They shook and she reveled in the feel of his firm grip. “Good,” she said.
He turned slowly and walked out the door.
God, could he tell I found him sexy?
It'd been so long since she found another man attractive. However, when would she grow up and learn that she should be checking out nice looking men as prospects for future sons-in-law, not hoping they found her eye candy?
Stop it, Tilley. A smell of soap lingered in the air. Zest, Dial, Life Boy? Unrecognizable, the scent stumped her. Maybe it's Tide.
After a busy day at work, Tilley found herself anticipating a night out with the girls. Secretly, she hoped her customer showed at dinner, but couldn't quite grasp why. Absolutely in love with her husband, Zeke, she'd never do anything to compromise their marriage. But a girl can look, can't she?
“Mom, she has gross, dead earthworms in that box.” Mica exaggerated each word and the crescendo of the individual syllables pierced Tilley's eardrums.
“They're not dead,” Trisha said. She held in her hands a small, white gift box and as she opened the lid Tilley saw a mass of dead worms lying on the cotton. “They're hibernated.”
“Trisha, Mommy doesn't want you to put worms on the kitchen table, okay, honey? Take them out back.”
Indignantly, she turned toward Tilley. “They are going to turn into cocoons and then they will turn into butterflies. We learned it at school. I want to keep them until they are butterflies.”
“Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry, but speaking in metamorphic terms, that's not going to happen.” Tilley brushed Trisha's blonde, wispy bangs from her pale, yet strikingly, bright blue eyes.
“Told you, stupid,” Mica said, in triumphant glee.
“Please listen to yourself, Mica. You‟re frickin' seventeen and arguing with a six-year-old.” Tilley stood, feeling her knees crack and she pulled out a chair as tiny dots swam in front of her face.
“Oh, and Mom, another thing. I'm going to kill Jade. I'm really going to do it this time. She's an idiot. Why'd you have to have her?”
As if on cue, Tilley's twelve-year-old, middle daughter, Jade walked into the fray.
“Why are you going to kill me this time?” She nudged a chair away from the table with her hip, grabbed the Fruit Rings off the counter and sat next to Trisha.
“What's in the box, squirt?” Jade asked. Her older sister's rant of the moment ignored, she poured milk into her bowl of
cereal.
“They're dead earthworms, dear,” Tilley said. “Do you want yours fried or scrambled?”
“I'm going to totally barf,” Mica yelled. “You know, we could all get, like, e-coli from those repulsive creatures sitting on our table. We could all die and you're making jokes.”
Jade added more milk and Mica smirked at her. “You better make that skim milk, chubbo.”
This upset Tilley. “Do not call her that. Do you hear me? She isn't chubby.” Jade, at age twelve, still carried baby fat on her short body and Tilley hated when tall, thin Mica called attention to it.
During this entire exchange, Tilley's husband, Zeke sat with the morning paper and a glass of orange juice in front of him. Oblivious to their early morning biology lesson, he turned the page.
“Trish, please put the worms on the back porch,” Tilley said. “They will be much happier there.”
Mica hovered over Jade with a pair of pants in her hands and she spoke to Tilley as if Jade weren't in the room, so great her disdain.
“Mom, I want you to tell Jade if she ever wears my jeans again I will not be responsible for what I do to her. She wears them, stretches them out with her fat ass, then she folds them and puts them in my drawer hoping I won't notice.”
“Jade, do you hear your sister?” Tilley asked.
“Yep,” Jade said. Her dark blonde hair hung in her eyes, and she pushed it behind her ears to see the morning comics more clearly. “I sure did.” She crunched her Fruit Rings apathetically.
“Don't wear her jeans, okay.”
“Kay,” Jade mumbled.
Incredulous, Mica stared. “God, Mom, thanks. It's so obvious you love Jade more than me. She gets whatever she wants and she never gets in trouble. I'm so sick of it.”
“You're finally catching on?” Tilley said. She gave Mica a Cheshire cat smile, leaned back in her chair and cupped her coffee, sipping it slowly.
“I'm so gone.” Mica grabbed her backpack and headed out.
“Don't forget your absent note for yesterday,” Tilley yelled. “I put it on the dryer.”
“I got it,” Mica screamed.
“You're welcome,” Tilley called. When the back screen door slammed shut, she cringed.
Zeke finished his coffee and told Jade and Trish to get a move on or they'd be late. He kissed Tilley on the lips and reached for her breast, glancing at the kids to make sure they weren't looking.
“Knock it off.” A serene smile played on her lips as she pushed his hand away.
Backpacks grabbed off the counter, lunches in hand, Tilley kissed them all goodbye before heading upstairs to brush the taste of the red wine from the night before from her mouth. A hot shower later, she took her vitamins, three Advil and popped a mint. Ready to face another day, she headed out the door for work.
Tilley concentrated on getting some invoices completed for a shipment from the antique store she worked at part-time, her mind swam deeply in numbers. Her phone rang and she reached to answer it. “Hey, Michelle.” The phone in the crook of her neck, she continued with her work.
“Hi, Tilley. I‟m calling to see if you're busy tonight?”
“It depends.” She yawned for affect, in hopes if Michelle had something boring planned she could feign exhaustion.
“Ya know, you never go out with us girls anymore. We're going to dinner and then over to the Landmark for a couple of drinks. You're coming.” Stressing the words the way she did, made them a statement of fact, rather than a question.
Tilley's neighbor, Michelle, renowned for relentlessly badgering people to wear them down, was adamant. Tilley understood her point. She hadn't been to a girl's night out in a long time. The joy of being drunk with a bunch of middle-aged women took its toll on her and she preferred drinking alone.
“You know what, Michelle,” she said, “if you promise me it won't be a real late evening I might consider it.”
A night spent relaxing in front of the television with a glass or two of wine or maybe vodka on the rocks appealed to her more.
“Don't sound so excited,” Michelle said.
“I'm tired and I have a headache, I'm sorry.”
“I'll pick you up at six. Try to rest before that.”
“See you then.” Tilley hung up and moaned.
Is there enough wine in the fridge for a couple of glasses before Michelle picks me up?
A sticky note to pick a bottle up on the way home, stuck to her phone, would remind her.
Lulled from her thoughts by the sound of the bell ringing on the front door, she rose to greet her customer. Quickly removing her reading glasses, she glanced toward the entrance as a tall, striking man of around thirty walked in.
“Hi, can I help you?” Tilley asked. He came closer and she smiled warmly at him.
“Yes,” he began. His head swiveled around left, then right as he took in the furniture filling the store. “I‟m supposed to meet a Mr. or Mrs. Lewis to see a dining room table and chairs.”
“The Lewis' are usually in later in the afternoon, but I can help if you tell me what it is you're looking for.”
His above average man-in-the-street persona struck her first. Dressed in jeans and a red flannel shirt with work boots, he appeared to be a construction worker and his hands, culled from the hard work of, say a carpenter, were big and rough. He possessed the type of face that drew stares not only from desperate, single women, but from wives married for fifty-years and eighty-year-old gray-haired virgin librarians.
Explaining what he wanted, Tilley showed him an antique oak table and chairs.
“These are nice.” He ran his hand over the tabletop and then through his short, dark blond hair, his eyes squinting in thought. “But I was looking for something with a little more wear and tear. I tend to be rough on things.”
He smiled at Tilley and she disgusted herself with an inappropriate mental innuendo.
“I'd be afraid to put a can of Coke on this table.”
“I don't think we have anything else at the moment that fits what you're searching for.” She didn't want to sound ostentatious by telling him they dealt strictly in high-end antiques and he might have better luck at a thrift store or the Salvation Army. “I can call you if something comes in though, if you leave your phone number with us.”
“Great, thanks. I'll do that.” He gave Tilley his number and walked toward the door, when a Gramophone by the exit turned his head. He smiled, his hands on his hips. “Does this thing work?”
“Uh, yeah, would you like to hear it?” On her way over, she caught a subtle smell of soap emitting off him and it comforted her for some odd reason. From a wooden box, she removed an old record and put it on. After a few cranks of the handle on its side, the music started and he grinned. The song, a recording by Bessie Smith from the nineteen-twenties, skipped a few times.
His face beamed as the music began. “I can't believe we're listening to this.”
She faced him. “It's something else, isn't it? I have all her songs on CD's at home, but nothing compares to hearing her voice coming from an old Victrola. It's what it was intended for, after all. No one will ever sing the blues so beautifully again.”
They listened to the scratchy, hollow and yet still strong, sensuous voice coming off the aged record, lost in a world all their own, a world that knew no time. Billy sang about it being nobody's business what she did in her life and they nodded their heads in agreement.
The song ended and he glanced over at her, ready to say something when Tilley talked at the same time. They both laughed and his mirth granted her a view of his stunning smile and white, straight teeth. It only figured that his breath smelled of toothpaste.
“I'm new in town,” he said. “It's great to meet someone helpful. Nowadays, most people don‟t want to give you the time of day. Thanks for letting me listen. I enjoyed that.”
“No problem,” Tilley said. “So, what brings you to our neck of the woods?”
He shrugged his huge shoulders. “I needed a change and I remembered passing through here a while ago and loved the small town feel of this area. I free-lance write, so I have the ability to be a bit of a rolling stone. By the way, do you know of any good restaurants around?”
Without thinking, she blurted, “Funny you should ask. My friends and I are meeting for dinner this evening. You're welcome to join us.”
“I don't want to impose.”
“You won't be imposing, but if you don't want to meet for dinner, meet us at the Landmark. We're going for drinks
afterward. Locals hang there. It's a friendly place with good music on Friday nights. Although I'll warn you, it can get pretty rockin' after-a-while.”
Stupid comments flew out of her mouth when she got nervous and she winced at that one. God, what a nerdy thing to say. I guess I want him to think I was born in the twenties. Why didn't I just say it's the cat's pajamas?
“I still don't know…” he said slowly.
“Stop by if you want. I'll introduce you to some people and maybe you can start to feel more at home.”
“Thanks.” His smile reached out to her before his hand. “I think I'll take you up on that offer.”
They shook and she reveled in the feel of his firm grip. “Good,” she said.
He turned slowly and walked out the door.
God, could he tell I found him sexy?
It'd been so long since she found another man attractive. However, when would she grow up and learn that she should be checking out nice looking men as prospects for future sons-in-law, not hoping they found her eye candy?
Stop it, Tilley. A smell of soap lingered in the air. Zest, Dial, Life Boy? Unrecognizable, the scent stumped her. Maybe it's Tide.
After a busy day at work, Tilley found herself anticipating a night out with the girls. Secretly, she hoped her customer showed at dinner, but couldn't quite grasp why. Absolutely in love with her husband, Zeke, she'd never do anything to compromise their marriage. But a girl can look, can't she?
Chapter Three
At home, Tilley turned up the volume of her favorite Bessie Smith CD, pulled down her pants and stripped off her shirt. Bessie sang out about a good old wagon that had broke down.
Hands behind her head, she launched into a bump and grind, staring at herself in the mirror. Her black bra and matching lace panties created a pleasant affect and with her gut sucked in, she figured she didnt come across half-bad. Endless crunches had to make some difference.
Her hair pulled up, she gazed at herself sideways in her full-length mirror, puckered her lips into a pout and studied her reflection.
Maybe with a strong pair of support hose I can pull off wearing tight jeans.
Bessie's voice gave her courage, egging her on to have a good time.
The thought of her encounter earlier in the day caused a smile to whisper over her face. It wasn't often she found anyone else who loved the old songs of the twenties and thirties.
“Hey, Mica!” Tilley yelled, “Do you have a cute outfit for your old ma to wear out with the girls?”
The exasperated whine of her oldest daughter issued from across the hall. “Mother, you're old, wear mom clothes.”
“I promise to wear stretchy, polyester pants with electric waste bands and sweatshirts with pictures of cute kittens on them, starting on my forty-sixth birthday,” Tilley said. “But in the meantime, can I borrow your cute striped blouse with the long sleeves and cuffs? It'll be stunning with my mom jeans.”
Tilley rummaged around in her drawer for her best push-up bra.
Mica came through the door and threw the shirt on Tilley's bed. “If it looks good with your mom jeans, you can keep it.”
“Oh, I see,” Tilley laughed. “If I think it's pretty, it's not cool enough for you?”
“Whatever!” Mica ran down the stairs and out the front door. The revving engine of a muffler-less car, driven by one of her friends, pulled away.
“Geez,” she said. “Was I that stupid when I was young?”
In her robe, Tilley walked downstairs and into the kitchen. The fridge stocked full, she pulled out her recently purchased bottle of, now chilled, wine and poured some into Trish's lavender fairy cup with the lid and straw. Her cell phone in her pocket, she hit number one on her speed dial.
“Hi, Zeke the Greek,” she said.
“Hi, hon, what's up?”
“Michelle and the girls are going to dinner tonight and they wanted to know…”
He finished her question for her. “If you can go, too?”
“Yep,” she answered.
“What time do I need to be home?” Resigned, yet pleased to hear her happy, she heard the smile in his voice.
“I love you. Michelle‟s coming at six.”
“I'll be home before that.”
Beverage in hand, Tilley went back upstairs to finish her makeup and got dressed. Her Wonder Bra, the first item she put
on, picked her breasts up a notch.
Sad, when they have to be stuffed in.
With the top two buttons undone on Mica's borrowed blouse, some eye-catching cleavage showed through.
“Hmm, not bad for an old hag.” Shoulders shrugging, she unbuttoned one more. “There you go, honey,” she said. “If ya got it, flaunt it.”
Curled into an effortless looking up-do, which took thirty minutes to perfect, her hair behaved flawlessly.
A reconnaissance mission into Mica's room, successful, she acquired a pair of dangling earrings, some of her perfume and a lip-gloss.
Pulling on her favorite boots with the extra high heels, she grabbed her black BCBG Maxazria jacket and preened in front of the full-length mirror in the corner.
“Voila, I am complete,” she said.
Zeke home and the kids fed, she waited for her ride.
Michelle pulled into the drive and Tilley ran to the car like a hormonally challenged teenager. The door opened and she stared in shock at her old friend, Maggie, who sat in the front seat.
“Magpie!” Tilley screamed.
“See why I begged you to come?” Michelle said.
“Now I appreciate why you were so insistent,” Tilley said laughing.
Maggie and Tilley used to be inseparable. Best friends during elementary school, high school and college, Tilley absolutely loved her. Maggie, the wild one, the one who used to frequent the bars with Tilley and say, Okay, Till, you attract 'em and I'll attack 'em, grinned back.
She never understood why she said that, because Tilley considered Maggie much prettier. Long, golden brown hair, tall
and graceful as a fawn, she stood out in any crowd. She was also outgoing, spirited and funnier than hell and could have Tilley giggling at a funeral in 0.3 seconds. They parted ways when Tilley married. The whole baby thing bored Maggie.
“Hi, Tilley Willy,” Maggie said.
“What are you doing in town?” Tilley squealed excitedly as she jumped into the back seat, leaned over and hugged her around the neck. She still smelled of Chanel No 5.
“Long story,” Maggie said. “Come on, let's go. I'm as dry as dirt.”
“Something tells me this isn't going to be an early night, after-all,” Tilley beamed, while Michelle backed down her drive.
At Windows on the Lake Restaurant, their friends drank and munched on appetizers, but stood when they entered to give Maggie the customary hug and kiss. They settled in, ordered their drinks and relaxed.
“How's life been treating you?” Maggie asked. Her hair swung over her shoulder in that old, familiar way. “How's your hunk of a husband? Has that Michael Landon look-a-like gotten gray yet?”
“Shut up,” Tilley said, laughing. “Why do you insist Zeke looks like him?”
“Because, he does!” Maggie grabbed an oyster on the half shell from the plate of appetizers near them.
“He's great Maggie, how about you?” Tilley didn't give her time to answer. “It‟s so wonderful to see you. I didn't realize how much I missed you until I saw your face.”
“Thanks, I think,” Maggie chuckled. Her huge, brown eyes, always so full of life and laughter, illuminated her features.
“You still in New York?” Tilley asked.
“Yeah, but I'm staying here in town at my mom's for awhile. She's pretty sick.”
“Oh, God, really? I didn't know. What's wrong?”
“She's dying. They say it's a matter of months. She's trying not to be sad and scared around me, but I know she must be.”
“Is your son with you?” Tilley put her hand on Maggie's.
“No, he's a little Italian boy, born and raised. Some mother I turned out to be, huh?” She shook her head. “Thank God for e-mail. I talk to him every day and his dad, Anthony, is great. A real standup father. Unfortunately, that wasn't the only standup habit he had.”
“What do you mean?”
“Till, let me tell you, that private of his stood to attention more often than the entire US Military and he wasn't only saluting me.”
“Oh, ick,” Tilley said. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't be sorry for me, please. Leaving him was the best thing I ever did. I got a great settlement from him and a beautiful son, too.”
Funny she put them in that order.
“My boy is better off in Italy, although I do miss him, of course,” she continued. “He has tons of cousins, aunts and uncles there. More than I can give him.”
A smile and a lowering of her head, the silent gesture Tilley remembered her making when she wanted a subject closed, to change the direction of their conversation.
“Where in New York are you living?” Tilley asked, pleased she remembered the ever-subtle nuances of an old friendship.
“I'm sharing an apartment in Manhattan with my friends Sven and Charlie.” She reached for a shrimp and ate it with gusto. “They're popular chefs and have their own restaurant. I'm so selfish and spoiled it's the perfect fit for me. They know I'm the center of the universe and they behave accordingly.”
“Same old Maggie,” Tilley said.
“It's hard enough caring for my mom, but dear Lord in heaven, she still has the walking pork chop in her house.”
“Scamper! Scamper is alive? No way,” Tilley said.
Maggie smirked. “That dog has cataracts, asthma, arthritis and depression. He should have been dead years ago. He lies around watching Lawrence Welk reruns and eating soup. I know when he's digging in the garden, he's not looking for bones, he's digging his own grave.”
“God, Maggie,” Tilley said. During a long sip of wine, she never lost eye contact with her friend and wiped her mouth with a cocktail napkin, “I've missed you.”
Dinner finished, they headed to the Landmark. At the club, Tilley went with Maggie to the ladies room to freshen her make-up. Maggie, in a stall, called for Tilley to join her.
“For old time's sake.” Maggie presented her with a line of coke on a palm-sized mirror.
“Magpie, I don't do drugs anymore. But thanks anyway.” Seeing the drug shocked Tilley, but she attempted to sound casual.
“That's why I said, for old time's sake.” Maggie winked and shrugged her shoulders. “I figured you were a goody-two-shoes, soccer mom now.”
Tilley felt torn. She hadn't done coke in twenty years, but with a friend from the past she loved and wanted to please, she underwent the old familiar pull.
After all this time, I'm suffering from peer pressure?
What did she say to her girls? “Don't do drugs, drugs kill, drugs are for losers.”
She took a snort while mentally ticking off those wonderful pieces of advice. What could she say? She was a loser, but a loser who felt wonderful. Maggie still held that infallible doctrine she lived by and as in days of old, it easily wore off onto Tilley.
“I feel so silly, Maggie. We're in our mid-forties, acting twenty.”
Maggie shushed her. “Quiet or you'll get us in trouble. Smokin' in the lav, remember.” Maggie snorted two lines.
Walking from the bathroom, Tilley rubbed her nose to erase any telltale signs of cocaine inhalation.
The crowded dance floor pulsated with deafening music. Strobe lights bounced off the walls and the chrome tables shined like oversized, silver mushrooms sprouting from the ground of some weird, psychedelic garden. All her old friends, together and laughing, erased Tilley's earlier apprehension of going out and she reveled in feeling young and beautiful again.
Maybe I misjudged them all. Maybe they're not turning into stuffed shirts.
Maggie grabbed Tilley and pulled her into the throng of dancers. Gyrating to the music, Tilley felt invincible, attractive and free. The cocaine definitely did its job. Doing, The Bump, a dance Tilley remembered from the seventies, they held onto each other's waists, laughing hysterically.
When done, Maggie went to the bar and ordered another round of tequila shots, while Tilley headed toward the ladies room. Doing her best to walk in a straight line, she brushed passed her friend from the store.
“You made it!” She grabbed his arm as if they were old friends. “Glad to see you could come.” Slurred, her words muffled by the music. “I'm on…me way.” She giggled. “My way to bath…room, nature calls,” she screamed at him. “Wait here and I'll introduce you to some of my friends.”
“You look great,” he said.
“What?” Tilley yelled. The music, so loud they leaned next to each other‟s ear to hear, she noticed he still smelled divine.
“Nothing, never mind,” he said.
“Hold on,” she stumbled into him, “let me make my pit stop or should I say pee stop.” Her laughter, loud and obnoxious, didn't faze him.
“Yeah, okay,” he said.
Tilley felt certain he ogled her as she walked away. Her confidence in overdrive, she shook her behind. For a change, she looked and felt great.
When she finished, he stood in the same spot, stirring a drink.
“Is this a regular Friday thing?” he asked her. “Do you and your friends come here a lot?”
“No, this is a special ladies night. Our friend came in from New York and we're pretending we're young again.”
“What do you mean pretending?” He closed one eye, studying her. “You're, what…twenty-six, right?”
“I think this music is playing tricks with your eyesight along with your hearing.” Tilley stuck her fingers into her back pockets, sucked in her stomach and yelled. “I'm a forty-five-year-old wife and mother of three.”
“If you say so,” he said. “I don't want to have to card you.”
“What are you drinking? Let me get you something.”
“I've been downing, Cosmos. I have one at my table. Come on over and meet the rest of the over-the-hill gang.”
Maggie lined up a round of tequila shots and Tilley, ready to introduce him to her friends, laughed and whispered loudly into his ear. “I don't know your name? Did you tell me at the store?”
“I'm Steve,” he said.
Tilley introduced him as a friend from work and offered him a shot.
He belted it down immediately. “You want to dance?” he asked.
Tilley put her chin to her shoulder, in an attempt to appear coy. “Sounds great.”
The strong arm he offered, enticed her and she took hold of it as he led her to the raised dance floor. The beat of the music thumping in her head and the bright lights twirling around the darkened club, made her dizzy.
His off-white shirt, tucked into dark jeans, came off as chic, yet not too overbearing. Definitely younger than her, he seemed familiar with the music they played and danced accordingly.
Bopping around with this stranger, she didn't question her behavior. So high, she cared only for the music, the excitement and the fun, euphoric feeling inhabiting her otherwise dull, boring life.
They danced to three songs before heading back to the table. Getting late, a few of their friends left for home.
“Where is everyone?” A cocktail napkin in her hand, she waved it in front of her perspiring face, and appeared concerned.
Maggie, who again gave everyone shots of tequila, smiled.
“They took off and left us. They mumbled something boring about husbands, children and responsibility. So that means we get to do their shots.”
Tilley didn't see any problem and drank two in a row.
“Yeah, we're leaving, too,” Michelle said.
Maggie spent the evening gaping at a cocky, shaved head cowboy and he finally came over.
“Not yet.” Maggie crooked her head his way. “I want to go two-step with John Wayne here.” Her hand out, he grasped it and they headed to the dance floor.
Annoyed, Michelle glanced at her watch and shook her head. “All right, a couple more songs and then we‟re leaving.” Ensconced in her chair, she sipped water.
A slow song played and Steve led Tilley to the dance floor.
“I shouldn't be doing this,” she slurred.
“You aren't allowed to dance with a friend?” Steve smiled at her sweetly. “Think of me as a friend.”
Rhythms from the song melted her body into his and she pulled Steve close, her head on his shoulder, her face turned away. His hands on her hips, he moved them down to the round of her bottom and she felt he‟d grown as he rubbed against her.
Facing him again, her lips caressed the stubble on his neck, just below his jaw line. His scent, intoxicating, she put a delicate kiss on his beating pulse.
Michelle witnessed the entire tawdry scene and showed signs of disgust. After they finished and sat down, she glared at Tilley.
“If you want a ride, you have to take it now,” she said. She let Tilley know she didn't appreciate her behavior. “I'm leaving.”
“I'll take you home later if you want,” Steve interrupted.
“Really! Great, yeah,” Tilley said. “Thanks.”
Michelle gave Steve a deadly stare. “She's coming home with me.”
“Tilley's a big girl, I think that's her decision to make,” he said.
“Tilley's had too much to drink,” Michelle said sarcastically and yet firmly. “So, I think as her friend, I should do what's best for her.”
“I'll be fine,” Tilley said. “Steve's a friend. We know—each other from w-work. Don't worry. Besides, I'll be with Maggie. Go home.”
'You've had a lot to drink, Tilley,” Michelle said. “I'm worried. I think you should come home with me.”
“God, I'm not friggin four-years-old,” she said. “I'll make up my own mind, hiccup, when to go home, thank you very much. I'll thank you to keep your nose out of my, hiccup, business. Steve is a friend. He'll drive me and Maggie home.”
Michelle, upset, left reluctantly. Tired of arguing with Tilley, she hoped for the best and depended on the fact Tilley knew Steve from work, although she‟d never mentioned him before.
As if bounced out of a time machine, allowing her to replay her days as an unattached college girl, Tilley lived in the moment.
They did more shots and Steve pulled Tilley tight as the night wore on. Her inhibitions completely gone, she let him wrap his arms around her and press himself close. Michelle and her other friends gone, taking their judgmental attitudes with them, she felt free to have some fun.
The crowd thinned to a couple dozen people as the lights came on. Ready to go, the room did a spin and Tilley grabbed a table to steady herself. Darting a worried gaze around, she didn't see Maggie anywhere.
“Where did Maggie go?” Tilley asked Steve woozily.
“She skipped town with the urban cowboy.” He took her arm. “Come on, I'll take you home.”
Hesitant for a moment, she held onto him and they left the club together. His car, parked in the empty lot, appeared expensive and she attempted to open the door. Coming to her aid, he helped and then gently guided her in.
In the driver's seat, he told her he was lonely, never having found the right woman to spend his life with. Feeling sorry for him, she enjoyed the kiss he placed on her lips, felt honored someone so good looking considered her worthy of such adoration, but her mind raced with worry at the mess she found herself in.
He reached over, cupped her face in his strong hands and kissed her again. His lips, soft and inviting, welcomed her kiss in return. The first man, other than her husband, she'd kissed in twenty-five years. Warm in his car, Tilley pushed a button to lower the window, but it didn't move. Sick, hot and claustrophobic, she only wanted out.
“I'm so attracted to you,” he said.
At home, Tilley turned up the volume of her favorite Bessie Smith CD, pulled down her pants and stripped off her shirt. Bessie sang out about a good old wagon that had broke down.
Hands behind her head, she launched into a bump and grind, staring at herself in the mirror. Her black bra and matching lace panties created a pleasant affect and with her gut sucked in, she figured she didnt come across half-bad. Endless crunches had to make some difference.
Her hair pulled up, she gazed at herself sideways in her full-length mirror, puckered her lips into a pout and studied her reflection.
Maybe with a strong pair of support hose I can pull off wearing tight jeans.
Bessie's voice gave her courage, egging her on to have a good time.
The thought of her encounter earlier in the day caused a smile to whisper over her face. It wasn't often she found anyone else who loved the old songs of the twenties and thirties.
“Hey, Mica!” Tilley yelled, “Do you have a cute outfit for your old ma to wear out with the girls?”
The exasperated whine of her oldest daughter issued from across the hall. “Mother, you're old, wear mom clothes.”
“I promise to wear stretchy, polyester pants with electric waste bands and sweatshirts with pictures of cute kittens on them, starting on my forty-sixth birthday,” Tilley said. “But in the meantime, can I borrow your cute striped blouse with the long sleeves and cuffs? It'll be stunning with my mom jeans.”
Tilley rummaged around in her drawer for her best push-up bra.
Mica came through the door and threw the shirt on Tilley's bed. “If it looks good with your mom jeans, you can keep it.”
“Oh, I see,” Tilley laughed. “If I think it's pretty, it's not cool enough for you?”
“Whatever!” Mica ran down the stairs and out the front door. The revving engine of a muffler-less car, driven by one of her friends, pulled away.
“Geez,” she said. “Was I that stupid when I was young?”
In her robe, Tilley walked downstairs and into the kitchen. The fridge stocked full, she pulled out her recently purchased bottle of, now chilled, wine and poured some into Trish's lavender fairy cup with the lid and straw. Her cell phone in her pocket, she hit number one on her speed dial.
“Hi, Zeke the Greek,” she said.
“Hi, hon, what's up?”
“Michelle and the girls are going to dinner tonight and they wanted to know…”
He finished her question for her. “If you can go, too?”
“Yep,” she answered.
“What time do I need to be home?” Resigned, yet pleased to hear her happy, she heard the smile in his voice.
“I love you. Michelle‟s coming at six.”
“I'll be home before that.”
Beverage in hand, Tilley went back upstairs to finish her makeup and got dressed. Her Wonder Bra, the first item she put
on, picked her breasts up a notch.
Sad, when they have to be stuffed in.
With the top two buttons undone on Mica's borrowed blouse, some eye-catching cleavage showed through.
“Hmm, not bad for an old hag.” Shoulders shrugging, she unbuttoned one more. “There you go, honey,” she said. “If ya got it, flaunt it.”
Curled into an effortless looking up-do, which took thirty minutes to perfect, her hair behaved flawlessly.
A reconnaissance mission into Mica's room, successful, she acquired a pair of dangling earrings, some of her perfume and a lip-gloss.
Pulling on her favorite boots with the extra high heels, she grabbed her black BCBG Maxazria jacket and preened in front of the full-length mirror in the corner.
“Voila, I am complete,” she said.
Zeke home and the kids fed, she waited for her ride.
Michelle pulled into the drive and Tilley ran to the car like a hormonally challenged teenager. The door opened and she stared in shock at her old friend, Maggie, who sat in the front seat.
“Magpie!” Tilley screamed.
“See why I begged you to come?” Michelle said.
“Now I appreciate why you were so insistent,” Tilley said laughing.
Maggie and Tilley used to be inseparable. Best friends during elementary school, high school and college, Tilley absolutely loved her. Maggie, the wild one, the one who used to frequent the bars with Tilley and say, Okay, Till, you attract 'em and I'll attack 'em, grinned back.
She never understood why she said that, because Tilley considered Maggie much prettier. Long, golden brown hair, tall
and graceful as a fawn, she stood out in any crowd. She was also outgoing, spirited and funnier than hell and could have Tilley giggling at a funeral in 0.3 seconds. They parted ways when Tilley married. The whole baby thing bored Maggie.
“Hi, Tilley Willy,” Maggie said.
“What are you doing in town?” Tilley squealed excitedly as she jumped into the back seat, leaned over and hugged her around the neck. She still smelled of Chanel No 5.
“Long story,” Maggie said. “Come on, let's go. I'm as dry as dirt.”
“Something tells me this isn't going to be an early night, after-all,” Tilley beamed, while Michelle backed down her drive.
At Windows on the Lake Restaurant, their friends drank and munched on appetizers, but stood when they entered to give Maggie the customary hug and kiss. They settled in, ordered their drinks and relaxed.
“How's life been treating you?” Maggie asked. Her hair swung over her shoulder in that old, familiar way. “How's your hunk of a husband? Has that Michael Landon look-a-like gotten gray yet?”
“Shut up,” Tilley said, laughing. “Why do you insist Zeke looks like him?”
“Because, he does!” Maggie grabbed an oyster on the half shell from the plate of appetizers near them.
“He's great Maggie, how about you?” Tilley didn't give her time to answer. “It‟s so wonderful to see you. I didn't realize how much I missed you until I saw your face.”
“Thanks, I think,” Maggie chuckled. Her huge, brown eyes, always so full of life and laughter, illuminated her features.
“You still in New York?” Tilley asked.
“Yeah, but I'm staying here in town at my mom's for awhile. She's pretty sick.”
“Oh, God, really? I didn't know. What's wrong?”
“She's dying. They say it's a matter of months. She's trying not to be sad and scared around me, but I know she must be.”
“Is your son with you?” Tilley put her hand on Maggie's.
“No, he's a little Italian boy, born and raised. Some mother I turned out to be, huh?” She shook her head. “Thank God for e-mail. I talk to him every day and his dad, Anthony, is great. A real standup father. Unfortunately, that wasn't the only standup habit he had.”
“What do you mean?”
“Till, let me tell you, that private of his stood to attention more often than the entire US Military and he wasn't only saluting me.”
“Oh, ick,” Tilley said. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't be sorry for me, please. Leaving him was the best thing I ever did. I got a great settlement from him and a beautiful son, too.”
Funny she put them in that order.
“My boy is better off in Italy, although I do miss him, of course,” she continued. “He has tons of cousins, aunts and uncles there. More than I can give him.”
A smile and a lowering of her head, the silent gesture Tilley remembered her making when she wanted a subject closed, to change the direction of their conversation.
“Where in New York are you living?” Tilley asked, pleased she remembered the ever-subtle nuances of an old friendship.
“I'm sharing an apartment in Manhattan with my friends Sven and Charlie.” She reached for a shrimp and ate it with gusto. “They're popular chefs and have their own restaurant. I'm so selfish and spoiled it's the perfect fit for me. They know I'm the center of the universe and they behave accordingly.”
“Same old Maggie,” Tilley said.
“It's hard enough caring for my mom, but dear Lord in heaven, she still has the walking pork chop in her house.”
“Scamper! Scamper is alive? No way,” Tilley said.
Maggie smirked. “That dog has cataracts, asthma, arthritis and depression. He should have been dead years ago. He lies around watching Lawrence Welk reruns and eating soup. I know when he's digging in the garden, he's not looking for bones, he's digging his own grave.”
“God, Maggie,” Tilley said. During a long sip of wine, she never lost eye contact with her friend and wiped her mouth with a cocktail napkin, “I've missed you.”
Dinner finished, they headed to the Landmark. At the club, Tilley went with Maggie to the ladies room to freshen her make-up. Maggie, in a stall, called for Tilley to join her.
“For old time's sake.” Maggie presented her with a line of coke on a palm-sized mirror.
“Magpie, I don't do drugs anymore. But thanks anyway.” Seeing the drug shocked Tilley, but she attempted to sound casual.
“That's why I said, for old time's sake.” Maggie winked and shrugged her shoulders. “I figured you were a goody-two-shoes, soccer mom now.”
Tilley felt torn. She hadn't done coke in twenty years, but with a friend from the past she loved and wanted to please, she underwent the old familiar pull.
After all this time, I'm suffering from peer pressure?
What did she say to her girls? “Don't do drugs, drugs kill, drugs are for losers.”
She took a snort while mentally ticking off those wonderful pieces of advice. What could she say? She was a loser, but a loser who felt wonderful. Maggie still held that infallible doctrine she lived by and as in days of old, it easily wore off onto Tilley.
“I feel so silly, Maggie. We're in our mid-forties, acting twenty.”
Maggie shushed her. “Quiet or you'll get us in trouble. Smokin' in the lav, remember.” Maggie snorted two lines.
Walking from the bathroom, Tilley rubbed her nose to erase any telltale signs of cocaine inhalation.
The crowded dance floor pulsated with deafening music. Strobe lights bounced off the walls and the chrome tables shined like oversized, silver mushrooms sprouting from the ground of some weird, psychedelic garden. All her old friends, together and laughing, erased Tilley's earlier apprehension of going out and she reveled in feeling young and beautiful again.
Maybe I misjudged them all. Maybe they're not turning into stuffed shirts.
Maggie grabbed Tilley and pulled her into the throng of dancers. Gyrating to the music, Tilley felt invincible, attractive and free. The cocaine definitely did its job. Doing, The Bump, a dance Tilley remembered from the seventies, they held onto each other's waists, laughing hysterically.
When done, Maggie went to the bar and ordered another round of tequila shots, while Tilley headed toward the ladies room. Doing her best to walk in a straight line, she brushed passed her friend from the store.
“You made it!” She grabbed his arm as if they were old friends. “Glad to see you could come.” Slurred, her words muffled by the music. “I'm on…me way.” She giggled. “My way to bath…room, nature calls,” she screamed at him. “Wait here and I'll introduce you to some of my friends.”
“You look great,” he said.
“What?” Tilley yelled. The music, so loud they leaned next to each other‟s ear to hear, she noticed he still smelled divine.
“Nothing, never mind,” he said.
“Hold on,” she stumbled into him, “let me make my pit stop or should I say pee stop.” Her laughter, loud and obnoxious, didn't faze him.
“Yeah, okay,” he said.
Tilley felt certain he ogled her as she walked away. Her confidence in overdrive, she shook her behind. For a change, she looked and felt great.
When she finished, he stood in the same spot, stirring a drink.
“Is this a regular Friday thing?” he asked her. “Do you and your friends come here a lot?”
“No, this is a special ladies night. Our friend came in from New York and we're pretending we're young again.”
“What do you mean pretending?” He closed one eye, studying her. “You're, what…twenty-six, right?”
“I think this music is playing tricks with your eyesight along with your hearing.” Tilley stuck her fingers into her back pockets, sucked in her stomach and yelled. “I'm a forty-five-year-old wife and mother of three.”
“If you say so,” he said. “I don't want to have to card you.”
“What are you drinking? Let me get you something.”
“I've been downing, Cosmos. I have one at my table. Come on over and meet the rest of the over-the-hill gang.”
Maggie lined up a round of tequila shots and Tilley, ready to introduce him to her friends, laughed and whispered loudly into his ear. “I don't know your name? Did you tell me at the store?”
“I'm Steve,” he said.
Tilley introduced him as a friend from work and offered him a shot.
He belted it down immediately. “You want to dance?” he asked.
Tilley put her chin to her shoulder, in an attempt to appear coy. “Sounds great.”
The strong arm he offered, enticed her and she took hold of it as he led her to the raised dance floor. The beat of the music thumping in her head and the bright lights twirling around the darkened club, made her dizzy.
His off-white shirt, tucked into dark jeans, came off as chic, yet not too overbearing. Definitely younger than her, he seemed familiar with the music they played and danced accordingly.
Bopping around with this stranger, she didn't question her behavior. So high, she cared only for the music, the excitement and the fun, euphoric feeling inhabiting her otherwise dull, boring life.
They danced to three songs before heading back to the table. Getting late, a few of their friends left for home.
“Where is everyone?” A cocktail napkin in her hand, she waved it in front of her perspiring face, and appeared concerned.
Maggie, who again gave everyone shots of tequila, smiled.
“They took off and left us. They mumbled something boring about husbands, children and responsibility. So that means we get to do their shots.”
Tilley didn't see any problem and drank two in a row.
“Yeah, we're leaving, too,” Michelle said.
Maggie spent the evening gaping at a cocky, shaved head cowboy and he finally came over.
“Not yet.” Maggie crooked her head his way. “I want to go two-step with John Wayne here.” Her hand out, he grasped it and they headed to the dance floor.
Annoyed, Michelle glanced at her watch and shook her head. “All right, a couple more songs and then we‟re leaving.” Ensconced in her chair, she sipped water.
A slow song played and Steve led Tilley to the dance floor.
“I shouldn't be doing this,” she slurred.
“You aren't allowed to dance with a friend?” Steve smiled at her sweetly. “Think of me as a friend.”
Rhythms from the song melted her body into his and she pulled Steve close, her head on his shoulder, her face turned away. His hands on her hips, he moved them down to the round of her bottom and she felt he‟d grown as he rubbed against her.
Facing him again, her lips caressed the stubble on his neck, just below his jaw line. His scent, intoxicating, she put a delicate kiss on his beating pulse.
Michelle witnessed the entire tawdry scene and showed signs of disgust. After they finished and sat down, she glared at Tilley.
“If you want a ride, you have to take it now,” she said. She let Tilley know she didn't appreciate her behavior. “I'm leaving.”
“I'll take you home later if you want,” Steve interrupted.
“Really! Great, yeah,” Tilley said. “Thanks.”
Michelle gave Steve a deadly stare. “She's coming home with me.”
“Tilley's a big girl, I think that's her decision to make,” he said.
“Tilley's had too much to drink,” Michelle said sarcastically and yet firmly. “So, I think as her friend, I should do what's best for her.”
“I'll be fine,” Tilley said. “Steve's a friend. We know—each other from w-work. Don't worry. Besides, I'll be with Maggie. Go home.”
'You've had a lot to drink, Tilley,” Michelle said. “I'm worried. I think you should come home with me.”
“God, I'm not friggin four-years-old,” she said. “I'll make up my own mind, hiccup, when to go home, thank you very much. I'll thank you to keep your nose out of my, hiccup, business. Steve is a friend. He'll drive me and Maggie home.”
Michelle, upset, left reluctantly. Tired of arguing with Tilley, she hoped for the best and depended on the fact Tilley knew Steve from work, although she‟d never mentioned him before.
As if bounced out of a time machine, allowing her to replay her days as an unattached college girl, Tilley lived in the moment.
They did more shots and Steve pulled Tilley tight as the night wore on. Her inhibitions completely gone, she let him wrap his arms around her and press himself close. Michelle and her other friends gone, taking their judgmental attitudes with them, she felt free to have some fun.
The crowd thinned to a couple dozen people as the lights came on. Ready to go, the room did a spin and Tilley grabbed a table to steady herself. Darting a worried gaze around, she didn't see Maggie anywhere.
“Where did Maggie go?” Tilley asked Steve woozily.
“She skipped town with the urban cowboy.” He took her arm. “Come on, I'll take you home.”
Hesitant for a moment, she held onto him and they left the club together. His car, parked in the empty lot, appeared expensive and she attempted to open the door. Coming to her aid, he helped and then gently guided her in.
In the driver's seat, he told her he was lonely, never having found the right woman to spend his life with. Feeling sorry for him, she enjoyed the kiss he placed on her lips, felt honored someone so good looking considered her worthy of such adoration, but her mind raced with worry at the mess she found herself in.
He reached over, cupped her face in his strong hands and kissed her again. His lips, soft and inviting, welcomed her kiss in return. The first man, other than her husband, she'd kissed in twenty-five years. Warm in his car, Tilley pushed a button to lower the window, but it didn't move. Sick, hot and claustrophobic, she only wanted out.
“I'm so attracted to you,” he said.
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