Life Happens

Mya threw up her hands. “You two planned this?” Looking at these women whose personalities were at opposite ends of the spectrum, she said, “Let’s just suspend my personal belief for a moment. Let’s say love isn’t a decision, and the fact that Jeffrey makes me think, makes me feel special and safe, and he’s a good kisser isn’t enough reason to marry him. How does a woman decide who to marry?”

With a flourish, Suzette took a sheaf of papers from her oversize purse. “I put that question to my second graders this morning. Claire, did you ask your class?”

“That was an assignment gone wrong. Trust me, you don’t want to hear the results.”

Suzette nodded. “My students’ answers were problematic, too.”

Now Mya was curious. “What did they say?”

“Nobody believes in true love anymore. Not even eight-year-olds.”

“Maybe they’re too young to make a decision,” Claire said.

New lease or not, Mya gave her the finger.

Waving as if at a bothersome insect, Suzette said, “I asked my students how they would decide who to marry. The smartest girl in the class said you wait until you’re old, at least twenty, and you go on a date, and if you believe half his lies, you go on another, and at the end of the summer you get married.”

Mya smiled.

Suzette didn’t. “Her best friend said you don’t decide. God does. You have to wait until you’re grown up and see who you’re stuck with. The boy who sits next to her stood up and declared that no age is a good age to get married. You got to be a fool to get married.”

“Nine will get you ten he’ll be sitting in the back of my class ten years from now,” Claire said. “If he’s still in school then.”

“That’s awfully judgmental!” Suzette admonished.

“You say judgmental, I say realistic. Potato, po-tah-to.”

It was like watching a tennis match. Times like these, Mya understood why she’d started watching Dr. Phil’s program every chance she had.

“Are you bringing more chips?” Millie called from the next room.

Suzette dashed toward the door with the bag of chips, practically tripping over one of Jeffrey’s cats. When the door stopped swinging, Claire said, “And that’s another thing, Mya. You’re a dog person. You don’t even like cats.”

Mya scooped two of the oversize fur balls off the kitchen counter before they sampled the crab dip. Depositing them, none too ceremoniously, in the back room, she closed the door and brushed at the cat hair they’d left on her green silk blouse. “You have it all wrong. Those sneaky, obese, flea-ridden creatures don’t like me.”

“What’s not to like?”

Back in control, Mya let that go.

Claire looked worried, but she said, “Listen. It sounds like Jeffrey’s here. We’d better get out there and save him from Suzette.”

Right behind her, Mya said, “You mean from my mother.”

Oh, sure. Now Claire laughed.

“You’re positive you don’t want something to drink?” Mya held up the bottle of wine.

Jeffrey put it back on the coffee table where she’d gotten it. “Booze and E.R. duty don’t mix.”

The man was just about perfect, no doubt about it. “You’re not hungry?” Mya asked. “Not even for apple slices dipped in honey?”

Everyone had gone, and Mya was trying to put things away. Uninterested in putting anything away, Jeff put his arms around her. “I’d rather have a different kind of honey.”

Claire was right. Jeff was so nice he was corny. Corny wasn’t all. Thirty-two years old, Jeffrey Anderson stood six feet three inches tall, had linebacker shoulders, a wash-board stomach, hands and feet like a Labrador puppy and the sex drive of a seventeen-year-old. The thought burned through Mya’s mind before sliding away to a place she didn’t go anymore.

Nuzzling her neck, Jeff said, “I have to be back at the hospital in thirty-eight minutes. We can spend the next half hour doing anything you want, anywhere you want.”

Now what kind of woman could complain about that? He knew all the moves, and she would have to be a fool to waste them. And yet she always had the feeling he was asking for permission. Jeff was a gentleman. There was nothing wrong with that. Still, sometimes she wished he would just take her, devour her, infuse her with passion and delight until she writhed in ecstasy.

He turned her gently into his arms and kissed her again. Holding her to him, molding and kneading until she groaned, he eased her backward toward the sofa, where they’d last made love. She’d had a crick in her neck for two days.

“I think what you have in mind is best suited to a bed, Doctor.”

His face lit up as she reached for his hand. He’d lit up this way when he’d first laid eyes on her earlier tonight, too, although he still hadn’t said anything about her hair. He would either say something nice, or he wouldn’t say anything at all, of that she was certain. Jeff was a nice guy. Mya’s relationship with him was the most calm and rational one in her life. Until recently, she and her mother had rarely missed an opportunity to argue. Claire was of the opinion that the Donahue women weren’t happy unless they were miserable. Claire should talk. She could learn a great deal from Dr. Phil, if only she would tune in.

There was no reason in the world to be thinking about this, especially when a virile, nearly naked man was undressing her, caressing her, kissing her. Where was her blouse, anyway? Jeff peeled away her bra and covered her breasts with his big hands. Pleasure surged through her.

Mya was five-four-and-a-half, and at times Jeff seemed as big as a house. He was her safe place in the storm of life. She’d discovered it that night in the emergency room. It was the first time she’d set foot inside a hospital in years. She wouldn’t have then if she’d had a choice. She’d managed to remain stoic through the harrowing drive to the hospital, Suzette whimpering in the seat next to her. And then she’d managed to get Suzette into a wheelchair and through the automatic doors. She’d given the night nurse all the pertinent information. After they’d wheeled Suzette away, and Mya was alone in the cold, austere hospital, panic had set in. She’d shaken with the effort to hold herself together. And there was Jeffrey coming off duty, bringing her a cup of steaming coffee and the offer of a broad shoulder to cry on.

Jeffrey Anderson was just about the nicest, kindest man she’d ever met, and she’d found herself wondering if she’d been holding the wrong kind of man at bay. He’d asked for her phone number. And she’d given it to him. She was sure he wouldn’t call, even more sure she wouldn’t go out with him if he did. She was wrong on both counts.

He’d called, and it had felt good to talk with him over dinner. And later, it had felt good to kiss him. After a few dates, it had felt good to make love with him. What was so wrong with feeling good? He didn’t curl her toes. So what?

The wind howled and rain ran in sheets down her bedroom window. The room was shadowy and drafty. Goose bumps rose on her skin as he lowered her to the bed and eased down next to her. Heat emanated from him, drawing her closer.

The mattress shifted and their breaths mingled. She was tangling her legs with his when she glanced at the foot of the bed. Two cats sat nearby in the oblong patch of light spilling from the hall. A third had stopped in the doorway. All three were watching.

“Jeffrey. The cats.”

He groaned when she stopped doing what she’d been doing and removed her hand, but he heaved himself away from her and gathered up his cats. “I swear you guys do this on purpose.” Shooing them all into the hall, he closed the door. “Now, where were you?”

She laughed, and it almost sounded wicked. It had been a long time since she’d been wicked. He returned to her, and she enjoyed it so much she couldn’t help laughing again. He kissed her, stroked her, caressed her, until a deep feeling of peace entered her being. She spoke his name on a whisper, and he came to her, the joining of man to woman pure and pleasurable. Those first delightful tremors were just beginning when one of the cats yowled in the hall. The other two took up the cry.

Feeling her stiffen, Jeff said, “Pretend we’re in the jungle.”

Mya laughed, and he smoothed one fingertip along her cheek, down the length of her neck, skimming the outer swell of her breast, her waist, until he found what he was after. He was an ardent lover, mindful of her needs, and vocal about his. And yet she was distracted. Who wouldn’t be distracted with three cats yowling outside the closed bedroom door?

A memory came, unbidden. Hazy and as if from a great distance, she glimpsed for but a moment, two lovers too young to know what they were doing, and a passion so consuming nothing could have kept them from doing it. She stopped the thought, her mind suddenly blank, her body and soul empty.

“I love your hair.”

Mya started. “What?”

“Your hair. I like it. Very sassy.”

He’d waited until it was pitch-dark to tell her. But it made her smile, and it brought her to him once again.

She moaned softly.