Authors: Laurie Breton
As she watched him drive out of
sight, a tiny crack appeared in the hard wall she’d built around her heart.
The phone dragged her out of
sleep. She rolled over, snatched it up, and fumbled it to her ear. The
bedside clock read 3:23 a.m. “Hey,” she said groggily.
“Hey,” her husband said. “Whatcha
doing?”
“At 3:23 in the morning? Oh, you
know, the usual. Feeding the chickens, slopping the hogs…”
“Hah. We don’t have any hogs. I
jus’ called to say—” He paused, the open line humming between them. “—I love
you.”
A hard little bud of tender
emotion unfurled inside her, tickling her insides as it opened like the soft
petals on a rose. She said, “Channeling your inner Stevie Wonder, are you?”
“What? Oh. Hah.”
“Have you been drinking,
MacKenzie?”
“Maybe. Jus’ a little.”
“Or maybe a lot. What’s with
that?”
He let out a soft little belch. “Sorry.
Iss a celebration. The tour’s over.
Finis. Sayonara.
I’m coming
home. T’morrow. Leavin’ on a jet plane.”
“And yet another song title. We’re
just brimming with lyricism tonight, aren’t we?”
“I’m coming home to you, baby. Is
that a song title? Wait, I got a better one.
Daddy’s Home
. Almost.”
“You are very drunk, my love.”
“Am I? Really?”
“Without question. Totally
wasted.”
“Not that. Am I your love?”
“Absolutely. Even totally
wasted.”
“Miss you so much. Miss your snarky
mouth. And that sof’ skin. You have the softes’ skin. Love to touch you.
Makes me all shaky inside.”
That tender thing blossoming
inside her grew larger and more insistent. “It’s a good thing you’re coming
home,” she said, “because all those hot young guys at the bowling alley are
starting to look really, really good. Those shirts. Those shoes. Those—”
“Hah. You’re a one-woman comedy
act.” He paused, uttered another soft belch. “I’ll have you know, I have been
SO damn good. Girls everywhere. Hot women. Weeks an’ weeks of hot women.
But not for this boy. Oh, no. You are the only one. I am ud…udderly and
completely blind to all of ‘em. You. Are. THE. Only woman. In the world.
Jus’ you. My baby, with the sof’ skin and the magic hands and that hot li’l
bod.”
Dryly, she said, “Good to know.”
“And you know what? Iss always
been just you. Always. Years an’ years an’ years. All those other girls? Di’nt
count. Nope. None of ‘em. But you jus’ di’nt see me.” He grew melancholy. “All
you could see was—” He hiccupped. And said flatly, “Him.”
“I see you now,” she said
fiercely. “I see you so clearly now.”
“All those girls. All of ‘em. Subst’tutes.
Because you. Were not.”
Hiccup.
“Available.”
“I’m here now. And I’m not going
anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“Of course, I promise. What’s
gotten into you? Besides beer?”
“Bourbon. It was bourbon that
got into me.”
“I see. That explains a little.”
“It’s jus’ that…I am so nuts
about you. And if you lef’ me, I’d die.”
Her insides melted like an ice
cream cone on a hot sidewalk. “Babe?” she said. “There is less than zero
chance that I will ever leave you.”
“You sure ‘bout that?”
“Trust me, you sweet, drunken
fool, I am not going anywhere. Listen, where are you?”
“Li’l Rock.”
“That’s not what I meant. Are
you in for the night?”
“I am. In my motel room. Motel,
hah! Rat hole’s more like it.”
“Listen, sweetheart, I think you
should hang up the phone, get some sleep, and call me tomorrow when you’re
sober.”
“You think?”
“I do.”
“And when I get home, we are
gonna party. Jus’ you and me. We are gonna get naked and have us some of that
old folks sex.”
“I’m breathless with anticipation.
Go to sleep now. We’ll talk tomorrow. Okay?”
“Okay.” And before she could say
good-night, he hung up the phone and left her holding a dead receiver.
***
It was mid-afternoon the next day
before he called again. “Hey, hot stuff,” she said. “A little hung over, are
we?”
“No hangover, but I slept three
hours later than I planned.” He paused. Said tentatively, “I’m sorry about
last night. I was so frigging wasted. Tell me I didn’t say anything
embarrassing.”
“I wasn’t aware that you
possessed the capacity for embarrassment.”
“Ha-ha. Very funny. Last night’s
pretty much a blank. But I have this sinking feeling that I stepped over the
line into purple prose.”
“Let me be sure I have this
straight. In the world according to MacKenzie, phone sex is a perfectly
acceptable leisure time activity. But a declaration of love—to your wife, no
less—is an embarrassment? Damn, Flash, sometimes you are such a guy.”
“In the words of that great
philosopher Popeye, I am what I am. I can’t help it.”
“Go ahead, blame it on that Y
chromosome. That’s so much easier than taking responsibility for your own
actions. Well, fine. I promise not to hold it against you. Any of it.”
He groaned. “Was I that bad?”
“You were actually very sweet.
And very, very drunk. What the hell were you thinking? I’ve never seen you wasted
like that. You’re always so good at holding your liquor.”
“It seemed like a good idea at
the time. Hanging with the guys, letting go of all the tensions of the last
six weeks. Kind of a grand finale after all those weeks of hell.”
“I’m disappointed in you,
MacKenzie. You’re far too old to start bowing to peer pressure.”
“Was I really sweet?”
“You seemed quite intent on
assuring me of your exemplary behavior in the face of a constant onslaught of female
pulchritude.”
“Shit.”
“And you laid on the lovey-dovey
talk pretty thick.”
“See what I mean? Diarrhea of
the mouth.”
“Are you deliberately looking for
a way to take the romance right out of it? Because if you are, you’re
succeeding quite nicely.”
“I’m not sure how you can find
anything romantic in the pathetic bleatings of a drunken Irishman. But for
what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“You should be. That lovey-dovey
talk made quite an impression on me. Oh, and you also made sure to remind me
that we have a hot date when you get home.”
“That should go without saying.
We’ve been apart for six frigging weeks. Does the term climbing the walls mean
anything to you?”
“Oh, trust me, it does.
Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder.”
He uttered a soft, snorting
laugh. “You should have that engraved on a big wooden plaque. One of those
kitschy, homespun things. We could hang it over the fireplace. See what kind
of response we get out of people.”
“That would go over really well
when your mother came to visit.”
“I’m not sure that Mom understands
the concept of abstinence. We’re talking about a woman who gave birth to nine
kids.”
“If your father, in his heyday,
was anything like his son, the poor woman never stood a chance.”
“I haven’t heard any complaints
from you so far.”
“And you’re not likely to be
hearing any in the future.”
“Good to know. Listen, babe, I
have to roll. The taxi’s here. My flight comes into Portland at 9:15. Be
there?”
“I’ll be there. Have a safe
flight.”
***
She stood impatiently in the
airport waiting area, her coat draped over one folded arm, needles of
anticipation dancing in her stomach. And then she saw him, moving steadily in
her direction while talking animatedly to some stranger. Her carry-on was slung
over one shoulder, the duffel bag—undoubtedly full of dirty laundry—over the
other, a guitar case swinging from each hand. Hadn’t he left with just one
guitar? He wore a faded Aerosmith tee shirt he’d owned for at least a decade,
and over the tee, unbuttoned, tails hanging loose, a wrinkled, olive-green Army
shirt she’d never seen before. Knowing him, he’d probably picked it up at
Goodwill. Tired and rumpled and scruffy, with a two-day growth of reddish
beard, he was still the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
He glanced up and saw her
standing there, and without so much as a good-bye to his traveling companion,
he came to an abrupt halt. She straightened her shoulders and watched his face
as he drank her in, from the top of her head down past her bare shoulders to
the strapless bodice of the frothy little summer dress, white with splotchy red
and pink flowers, that draped loosely over her breasts and gathered at the
waist. It ended in a full, flowing skirt that stopped several inches above her
knees. His gaze continued down her bare legs to her feet, encased in a pair of
shiny pumps with four-inch stiletto heels, in a screaming shade of red to match
the dress.
His attention returned to her
face, and his hand went to his heart in an unmistakable gesture of admiration.
Then he flashed her one of those zillion-megawatt smiles, the kind that had
stolen the hearts of women from Alberta to Zimbabwe. The impact was like
slamming head-first into a concrete wall. Something burst wide open inside
her, and she began trembling all over, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t form
a coherent thought. Goose bumps popped up on her skin as he began walking
toward her. Everything and everybody else faded away to pure white noise, and
he was the only thing she could see, and this tidal wave of emotion made the
way she’d felt about Danny seem like a grade-school crush.
How long had her feelings run
this deep? How long had she been this much in love with the man who’d been her
best friend for her entire adult life? Her thudding heart refused to answer,
and she just stared at him in stupefaction as he moved through all that white
noise toward her, bringing with him the realization that every day, every hour,
every second of her thirty-five years of living had been leading up to this
moment.
He reached her, set down both
guitars and the carry-on bag, let the duffel slide off his shoulder to the floor.
“Such a serious face,” he said.
She opened her mouth to respond,
but her tongue had gone too dry to form words. Instead, she reached up a hand,
brushed her palm over the whisker stubble on his cheek, moved it around to the
back of his neck, and watched as his eyes, fixed on her face, went from green
to gray. She reached up her free hand to touch his other cheek. Her coat slid
loose from the crook of her elbow, and she let it fall to the floor. He
lowered his head, kissed first her wrist, then her forearm, then the corner of
her mouth. Worked his way down her neck as she circled both arms around him
and buried her face in that wild tangle of hair.
His mouth found her bare
shoulder, and she shuddered. Against her skin, he said, “That is some dress, Fiore.”
She wet her lips, found her
voice, and said inanely, “I bought it on sale.”
“And you wore it for me,” he
said, taking a gentle bite from her shoulder, “because you knew what it would
do to my libido.”
Of course she’d worn it for him.
What other excuse could there be for wearing a strapless summer dress in
October? Primly, she said, “Your libido doesn’t need any extra help.”
He laughed and said, “That’s true
enough.” Nuzzled her ear. “I feel like a war hero, just back from the front
lines.”
“You’ve been on a rock tour,” she
said breathlessly. “In my book, that qualifies as front lines.”
“Remind me to tell you my war
stories. Later. After we take care of business.” He ran his knuckles down
her bare arm, turning her insides to molten lava. “You remind me of a cupcake.
All white and fluffy and delicious, with pink icing and little red candies on
top. And I want to swallow you up, one—” He pressed a kiss to her neck, just
behind her ear. “—crumb—” Another kiss, this one to the underside of her jaw,
and she let her head roll back limply. “—at a time.” She gasped as the third
kiss came dangerously close to where the little red and white dress displayed cleavage
that was nothing much to write home about.
He paused there, his breath hot
against the swell of her breasts. Amazing and wonderful man that he was, he
didn’t seem to mind that they were woefully inadequate, had always accorded
them the same attention and admiration that other men would have given to a
pair of 38DDs. It had been a long six weeks, and she wanted his hands on them.
On her. Wanted her hands on him. Wanted to rip his clothes off and have her
way with him, right here, right now.
But sanity told her that
somewhere beyond the edges of that white noise, they had an audience. She pressed
her cheek to his, reveling in the scrape of whiskers against her skin. Peeled free
a strand of her hair that had caught in his beard. Took a step back to regain
equilibrium and said, “I think we should go home.”
“Before we land on the front page
of the
National Enquirer
? Probably not a bad idea.”
Once they were on the highway, he
switched on the radio, fiddled with the dial until he found something to his
liking, a seventies rock station where Mick and the boys were declaring that
they were nobody’s beast of burden. In classic MacKenzie style, he began
singing along with Mick, a little too loud, a little off-key—deliberately, of
course—adding the occasional dramatic flourish just because he could.
Tuning out his impromptu duet
with Mick, she studied his face. Something had changed between them, with such
devious subtlety that she’d completely missed it until now. He was the same
person he’d always been. Playful, funny, a little to the left of center.
Tender, caring, generous. Easygoing, laid back, until he was crossed, and then
that hot Irish temper would ignite, and God help anybody who got in his way. No
surprises there. With Rob MacKenzie, it had always been
what-you-see-is-what-you-get.