Everything but a Husband

Galen let out a weary sigh, then carried her sweaters over to the bureau drawer.

“See, Elizabeth and Maureen are doing the turkeys—”

Galen turned so fast she nearly put out her shoulder. “Turkeys? Plural?”

“Well, yeah, since one bird ain’t gonna feed fifty people—oh, close your mouth. It’ll be fun. And then everybody else is bringing the side dishes.” One maroon-nailed hand drifted up to toy with a processed wave artfully draped across a forehead smooth as the polished walnut headboard on the bed. “’Course, with Elizabeth, you can’t call it potluck, since she wouldn’t likely see the humor in a table full of twenty-five pumpkin pies and nothing else. So she assigned people food groups.”

With a smile, Galen turned back to the bed, fishing her underwear from the bag. She’d already heard a lot about this woman and her tendencies toward obsessive-compulsiveness. And how her marriage to Guy Sanford, a free spirit with three young children and no discernible fashion sense, had loosened her up quite a bit in the past couple of years. “And what did you get?”

“Green vegetables.” Clutching the dog to her impressive bosom, she tugged the hem of her loose red sweater back over her thighs. “’Cept when I suggested bringin’ a mess of greens, she kinda blanched. Oh, she’s too polite to say anything, but she sure did brighten up when I mentioned as how a green bean casserole might hold up better, you know? Oh, honey…”

Galen looked up. “What?”

“I see you didn’t get to buy yourself that new underwear after all.”

Galen glanced down at the white cotton undies in her hands. “Sure I did. See?” She waved a bra. “Still has the tag and everything.”

Cora heaved herself from the chair, canine in tow, and snatched the bra from Galen’s hand. Glowered at it. “You mean, you just inherited two hundred fifty thousand dollars, and you bought underwear from K mart?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, child, if you have to ask, there’s your answer right there.” Cora tossed the bra back like it was a snake, then hmmphed through her nose. “What are you now? Thirty-four, thirty-five? And still dressing like they just let you outta the convent. Girl, I would kill for that figure you got, and there you go, keeping it all covered up like it was some kinda sin to let the world see how gorgeous you are. And then have the nerve to wear that sorry stuff underneath.”

Galen felt her cheeks flame. “It’s cotton. I like it.”

It’s what good girls wear. Good women. The kind of woman I married, Galen.

Over another hmmph behind her, Galen added, “Besides, it’s not like I’ve got anyone to exactly, well…” To her chagrin, she blushed even more. “Wear it for,” she finally finished. And no, that was not Del Farentino’s hooded, appreciative gaze that just popped into her head.

And call it instinct, but somehow she had the feeling Del wouldn’t tell her only cheap women wore fancy, lacy underwear.

She also had the feeling she was losing it, hooking up Del and sexy underwear in the same sentence when she no earthly reason to be thinking about either of them at all.

“Who said anything about anybody else?” Cora was saying. “A woman wears pretty things next to her skin because they make her feel good. Like a woman, you hear what I’m saying? At least, that’s the first reason to wear ’em. Any other reason that might happen to come along’s just frosting on the cake.”

Her cheeks still burning, Galen quickly tucked the garments in the drawer, slamming it shut maybe a little harder than she meant to. Somehow, she knew what was coming.

“Anyway, you didn’t wear anything pretty for your husband?”

What the hell is this? If I’d wanted someone cheap, I would’ve married one of the Ruscetti girls. So you just take that stuff back to the store. If they give you a hard time, tell ’em your husband said he didn’t like it….

“They…all wore out.”

Cora plopped back down into the chair, laughing low in her throat. Her “uh-huh” laugh. Galen knew Cora didn’t mean her reaction to sting, but the truth was…

The truth was, Galen really didn’t feel like thinking about the past tonight. Or ever. Far as she was concerned, there was only the future, starting right this very minute. A future completely non-dependent on what kind of underwear she wore. The eighteen-year-old girl who’d only bought the pretty lingerie because she thought it might please her husband, the husband she loved more than she’d ever loved anyone in her life, didn’t exist anymore.

And the thirty-five-year-old woman who’d taken her place was perfectly happy with cotton.

Vinnie hadn’t been mean about it, really. Or even angry. In fact, something like amusement had flashed in his dark eyes when she’d come to him, shyly untying the deep green satin robe she’d bought to go with the matching satin bikini panties, the push-up bra. No, he’d just looked at her—briefly—as he might have a child who’d put her shoes on the wrong feet. Then he’d pulled the robe closed, kissed her on top of her head, and calmly told her to go change.

And take back the underwear. Which of course she couldn’t do because she’d worn it. If only for five minutes.

When she’d finally thrown it out, she didn’t fully understand, not then, why she felt like something’d been stolen from her.

“Okay.” Galen turned around, arms folded across her waist, mentally whapping at the heebie-jeebies. Wondering who she might have been, if she hadn’t made some of the choices she had. If she hadn’t let desperation cloud reason, all those years ago. How long, she wondered, could a seed remain dormant before it would no longer spring to life? Guess she was about to find out, huh? “You’re doing green beans. What can I do?”

“Do?” Cora leaned back, her features twisted. “Baby, unless I’m very mistaken, this is the closest thing you’ve had to a vacation in years. Nobody expects you to so much as lift a finger while you’re here.”

Galen squinted at her. “You’re forgetting. This is the woman who loves to cook, who hasn’t had a chance to strut her stuff for nearly five years. Invalids and old ladies aren’t very appreciative when it comes to anything fancier than custard and boiled chicken.” She grinned, several possibilities swirling around in her brain. “You wouldn’t have a pasta maker by any chance?”

Cora’s eyes went wide. “You make pasta?”

“It’s the only way.”

“Uh, no. The only way is to buy stuff in boxes, throw it in boiling water, ten minutes later you eat.”

“You’d make a lousy Italian, Cora.”

“Not something that keeps me awake at nights, believe me.” Cora stood again and tramped to the door, still hanging on to the moony-faced dog. “Besides, Miss Irish-Slovak Mutt, you weren’t exactly born singing ‘O Sole Mio’ yourself.”

“Minor point.”

Cora chuckled, then said on her way out the door, “But, as it happens, I do have a pasta maker.”

Galen followed, confused. “But you said—”

“Didn’t say I used it.” Cora started down the narrow stairs, one wide hand braced on what seemed to Galen to be a very flimsy banister. “Rod and Nancy—you’ll meet them tomorrow, friends of Elizabeth’s and Guy’s, she’s crazier than a loon but they’re both just the sweetest people you’d ever want to meet—anyway, they gave me one when I moved in here. He’s some sort of gourmet cook himself, you should see his kitchen, honey. Mm-mm. But back to what I was saying before…” Now at the bottom of the stairs, she turned back to Galen, brows drawn together. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”

Galen stopped, two steps from the bottom, hands tucked in her pockets. “For heaven’s sake, Cora. I’m on vacation, not convalescent. So where’s this pasta maker?”

“You don’t have to do this—”

“Hey—you want me to go to this thing? You let me bring something.”

“Oh, Lord.” Shaking her head, Cora pivoted on the bare wooden floor, her leather-soled flats tapping against the boards as she made her way to the kitchen. “Now I’m beginning to remember what you were like as a child. Like to give your mama fits, what with you always getting a bee in your bonnet about one thing or another.” She finally jettisoned the dog, then opened and closed several heavily enameled white kitchen cupboard doors before she found what she was looking for. She lugged the machine off the shelf, thunking it down onto a badly worn Formica counter in a hideous shade of aqua.

Galen oohed at the pasta maker for several seconds before Cora’s words sank in. She looked up, brow puckered. “What are you talking about?”

“Baby, you were a real piece of work when you were little. Stubborn? Hardheaded? Willful?” Cora laughed. “Take your pick.” She nodded toward the appliance. “That okay?”

“What? Oh, yeah.” Her brain spinning, Galen caressed the glistening surface of the appliance. “This is like the Rolls-Royce of pasta makers.”

“Yeah?” Cora looked at it the way those people did on the “Antiques Road-show” when the appraiser told them the piece of junk that had been sitting in their great-aunt’s attic for a thousand years was worth more than their house, then shrugged. “Still.” Then she took off for the living room, leaving Galen, once again, to follow. Which she only did because she wanted Cora to tell her what the heck she was talking about.

Cora grabbed the clicker from the coffee table, settled herself on one end of the nubby, striped sofa. “Now, I’m not saying you were a bad child. Nothing like that. You never sassed your mama, least not that I ever heard. And you were always so good with my girls, even though they were so much younger than you. But you sure were a determined little thing. When you wanted something, you’d either drive your mama nuts until she gave in, or figured out some way to get whatever it was you wanted on your own.” She angled her head, frowning. “You don’t remember that?”

With a sigh, Galen sank into the overstuffed cushions beside Cora, her arms knotted at her waist. “Vaguely. But somewhere along the line…” She stopped, trying to figure out how to put what she felt into words. The dog hopped up onto her lap, bestowing two tiny kisses on her knuckles. Galen smiled in spite of herself. “I guess my parents’ deaths shook me more than I even realized.”