Ben had fallen hard for each other.
Months had passed since then. The sexual chemistry was still there. But what about the emotional chemistry? It seemed to have fizzled out, reaching its lowest point the night of their date in the Moroccan restaurant.
He was gone from her life, but he still managed to be everywhere. Fastening her bra, Mazie could almost feel his hands on her breasts. Dusting cobwebs, she recalled the way Ben would put his hands around her waist and lift her up so she could reach the webs on the ceiling. Opening her refrigerator, she was treated to a view of the foods she stocked because he liked them—party guests who’d outstayed their welcome. She chucked them all into the garbage.
She missed the way Ben pulled her onto his lap while they were watching baseball games on television and instructed her on the finer points of the game until the instruction session became a make-out session and then—oh, God—she missed sex with him so much, she ached all over and wished she hadn’t burned her bridges with Sadie, the passion party lady, because that Jack Rabbit vibrator would have come in handy these days.
Keep busy—that was the ticket. Mazie sorted drawers, reorganized her kitchen, gnashed gnomes, put up blue and white tiles in her kitchen, and actually phoned her parents.
They lived in Florida. Several years ago Mazie’s dad had been injured in a farm accident. He’d recovered, but he’d been left with severe short-term memory loss that meant he couldn’t return to the farming life he’d loved. Mazie’s mother, Edie, had found a doctor in Tampa who specialized in amnesia cases, and they’d bought a condo in a retirement village down there.
Mazie’s dad answered the phone, his voice so strong that he seemed to be right there in the room with her. Mike Maguire was short and stocky, with the weathered skin and brawny arms of a farmer. He had an Irish face: ruddy and freckled, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw—people were always telling him he looked like Spencer Tracy. Mazie had inherited her bright blue eyes and tendency to freckle from him.
“Mazie!” He sounded delighted to hear her voice. “How’s my baby girl?”
“Fine, Dad.” Mazie swallowed down the lump in her throat, trying to sound upbeat. “It’s raining a lot here.” Her dad liked weather talk.
“Rain’s good for the corn, but not for the oats—makes the oats rot. How’s that young man of yours. Bill, isn’t it?”
“It’s Ben, Dad.” Dad had difficulty remembering new people, but he’d met Ben when they’d flown down to Florida for a few days in December, had taken a shine to him, and most of the time remembered his existence.
“He’s fine,” Mazie lied.
“Good. I’m puttin’ your mother on.”
“Mazie?” her mother said. “Why are you calling? Is everything all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine. I just thought I’d call, that’s all.”
“You never call. You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“Mom!”
Mazie loved her mother very much, but they tended to grate on each other’s nerves. EdithMaguire had been Edith Carducci before she’d married Mazie’s dad. She was a fourth-generation Italian who’d passed on her heart-shaped face, her thick black lashes, and her musical aptitude to her daughter.
“How’s Ben?” her mom asked.
“Okay.”
“Just
okay
? You didn’t break up, did you?”
How did mothers always
know
?
“No! Well, sort of, yeah, we did.”
Might as well get it over with. She explained about the Sexiest Man Alive thing, about the fight she and Ben had had—slanting things heavily in her own favor—and how she was planning to get on with her life, a life that didn’t include Ben Labeck.
“Oh, Mazie!” Her mom managed to put a lot into those two words. “You’re so stiff-necked and stubborn. That boy is right for you. Even your brother likes him, and he never likes any of your boyfriends.”
Mazie’s brother, Scully, was a welcome change of subject, and
Months had passed since then. The sexual chemistry was still there. But what about the emotional chemistry? It seemed to have fizzled out, reaching its lowest point the night of their date in the Moroccan restaurant.
He was gone from her life, but he still managed to be everywhere. Fastening her bra, Mazie could almost feel his hands on her breasts. Dusting cobwebs, she recalled the way Ben would put his hands around her waist and lift her up so she could reach the webs on the ceiling. Opening her refrigerator, she was treated to a view of the foods she stocked because he liked them—party guests who’d outstayed their welcome. She chucked them all into the garbage.
She missed the way Ben pulled her onto his lap while they were watching baseball games on television and instructed her on the finer points of the game until the instruction session became a make-out session and then—oh, God—she missed sex with him so much, she ached all over and wished she hadn’t burned her bridges with Sadie, the passion party lady, because that Jack Rabbit vibrator would have come in handy these days.
Keep busy—that was the ticket. Mazie sorted drawers, reorganized her kitchen, gnashed gnomes, put up blue and white tiles in her kitchen, and actually phoned her parents.
They lived in Florida. Several years ago Mazie’s dad had been injured in a farm accident. He’d recovered, but he’d been left with severe short-term memory loss that meant he couldn’t return to the farming life he’d loved. Mazie’s mother, Edie, had found a doctor in Tampa who specialized in amnesia cases, and they’d bought a condo in a retirement village down there.
Mazie’s dad answered the phone, his voice so strong that he seemed to be right there in the room with her. Mike Maguire was short and stocky, with the weathered skin and brawny arms of a farmer. He had an Irish face: ruddy and freckled, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw—people were always telling him he looked like Spencer Tracy. Mazie had inherited her bright blue eyes and tendency to freckle from him.
“Mazie!” He sounded delighted to hear her voice. “How’s my baby girl?”
“Fine, Dad.” Mazie swallowed down the lump in her throat, trying to sound upbeat. “It’s raining a lot here.” Her dad liked weather talk.
“Rain’s good for the corn, but not for the oats—makes the oats rot. How’s that young man of yours. Bill, isn’t it?”
“It’s Ben, Dad.” Dad had difficulty remembering new people, but he’d met Ben when they’d flown down to Florida for a few days in December, had taken a shine to him, and most of the time remembered his existence.
“He’s fine,” Mazie lied.
“Good. I’m puttin’ your mother on.”
“Mazie?” her mother said. “Why are you calling? Is everything all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine. I just thought I’d call, that’s all.”
“You never call. You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“Mom!”
Mazie loved her mother very much, but they tended to grate on each other’s nerves. EdithMaguire had been Edith Carducci before she’d married Mazie’s dad. She was a fourth-generation Italian who’d passed on her heart-shaped face, her thick black lashes, and her musical aptitude to her daughter.
“How’s Ben?” her mom asked.
“Okay.”
“Just
okay
? You didn’t break up, did you?”
How did mothers always
know
?
“No! Well, sort of, yeah, we did.”
Might as well get it over with. She explained about the Sexiest Man Alive thing, about the fight she and Ben had had—slanting things heavily in her own favor—and how she was planning to get on with her life, a life that didn’t include Ben Labeck.
“Oh, Mazie!” Her mom managed to put a lot into those two words. “You’re so stiff-necked and stubborn. That boy is right for you. Even your brother likes him, and he never likes any of your boyfriends.”
Mazie’s brother, Scully, was a welcome change of subject, and
Similar Books
