I’m In No Mood For Love

at his note cards and shuffled a few to the top. He moved them around in rapid succession, setting some aside, then picking them back up and placing them in a different order. For the first time in weeks he felt the beginning flick in his head. He glanced at his notes scribbled on a legal pad, picked up a pencil, and scribbled a little more. The flicker caught fire and he placed his fingers on the keyboard. He moved his neck from side to side and wrote:

I’m told his name is Smith, but it could be Johnson or Williams or any other typically American surname. He is blond and wears a suit and tie as if he plans to run for president someday. Only his heroes aren’t Roosevelt, Kennedy, or Reagan. When he speaks of great men, he speaks of Tim McVeigh, Ted Kaczynski, and Eric Rudolph. Homegrown terrorists who’ve settled in the sediment of the American subconscious, overshadowed and forgotten for now by their foreign counterparts, until the next act of American extremism blows itself onto the nightly news and spills black ink across the nation’s newspapers as blood runs in the streets.

Everything clicked and whirred and fell into place, and for the next three hours the steady tapping of his keyboard filled the kitchen. He paused to refill his coffee mug, and when he was finished, he felt as if an elephant had stepped off his chest. He leaned back in his chair and blew out a relieved breath. As much as he hated to admit it, Clare had been right. He’d been trying to force it, to start the piece in the wrong place, and he hadn’t been able to see. He’d been too tense. Holding on too tight to look at what was so glaringly obvious. If Clare had been in front of him, he would have planted one on her beautiful mouth. Of course, kissing Clare anywhere was completely out of the question.

Sebastian rose from his chair and stretched. Earlier, when he asked her about her research, he’d meant to tease her a little. Knock her off her pins. Get her going, like he had as a kid. Only the joke was on him. He was thirty-five. He’d traveled the world and been with a lot of different women. He did not get all hot and bothered by a romance novelist in a cherry dress as if he were a kid. Especially that particular romance novelist.

Even if Clare was up for a few rounds of noncommital, no strings, hot and sweaty sex-and that was a big if-it would never happen. He was in Boise to try and build a relationship with his father. Something from the ashes, not set ablaze what little progress they’d made by sleeping with Clare. It didn’t matter that Joyce wasn’t Sebastian’s employer. She was his father’s boss, and that made her the boss’s daughter. If shit had hit the fan years ago over a conversation about sex, he hated to think what might hit the fan if they actually had sex. But even if Clare weren’t the boss’s daughter, he instinctively knew she was a one man woman. The problem with a one man woman was that he was not a one woman man.

His life had slowed in the past few years, but he’d spent most of his twenties bouncing from town to town. Six months here, nine there, learning his job, honing his craft, making a name for himself. Finding women had never been a problem. It still wasn’t, although he was a lot more particular at thirty-five than he’d been at twenty- five.

Perhaps someday he would marry. When he was ready. When the thought of it didn’t make him put his hands up in the air and back away from the idea of a wife and kids. Probably because he hadn’t exactly been raised in an ideal situation. He’d had two stepfathers. One he’d liked, the other he hadn’t. He’d liked some of his mother’s boyfriends, but always knew that it was just a matter of time before they left and his mother would once again shut herself in her room.

Growing up, he’d always known that his parents loved him. They’d just loathed each other. His mother had been vocal about her hatred of his father, but to be fair to his dad, the old man hadn’t ever said anything against his mother. Yet, sometimes it was what a person didn’t say that spoke volumes. He didn’t ever want to be stuck in that sort of vicious circle with a woman, and he certainly didn’t want to raise a child in that environment.

Sebastian bent at the waist and picked up his T-shirt from the floor. No, he would never rule out marriage and family. Someday he might decide he was ready, but that day wasn’t even in the pipeline.

The kitchen door opened and his father walked in. He moved to the sink and turned on the faucet. “Are you workin’?”

“I just finished.”

Leo grabbed a bar of soap and washed his hands. “I have tomorrow off, and if you’re not busy, I thought maybe you and me could drive up past Arrowrock dam and drop a hook.”

“You want to go fishing?”

“Yeah. You used to like to fish, and I hear they’re bitin’ up there.”

Fishing with the old man. It could work out to be just what the two of them needed, or it could turn into a disaster. Like shopping for a car. “I’d love to fish with you, Dad.”

Seven

The day after Lucy’s wedding, Clare had taken a vow of sobriety. The following Thursday evening at 5:32, she broke it. But really, a girl had to celebrate.

She held a bottle of Dom Perignon in her hands and worked the cork with her thumbs. After a few moments it popped and flew across her kitchen, hitting a deep mahogany cupboard and rebounding behind the gas stove. A gossamer mist rose from the mouth of the bottle as she poured into three tall champagne glasses. “This is going to be good,” she said through an unrepentant smile. “I stole it from my mother.”

Adele took a glass. “Stolen champagne is always the best kind.”

“What year?” Maddie asked as she took a glass.

“Nineteen ninety. Mother was saving it for my wedding day. Just because I’ve given up on men, doesn’t mean a vintage bottle of champagne should suffer.” She clinked glasses with Maddie and Adele and said, “Here’s to me.” An hour earlier she’d been given an oral HIV test, and within minutes found out she was negative. One more weight lifted from her shoulders. Her friends had been with her when she’d received the good news. “Thanks for going with me today,” she said, and took a sip. The only sad part of the celebration was that Lucy was not with them, but Clare knew that her friend was having a wonderful celebration of her own, soaking up the sun in the Bahamas with her new husband. “I know you both are busy, and it meant a lot that you were there with me.”

“Don’t thank us.” Adele wrapped an arm around her waist. “We’re friends.”

“I’m never too busy for you.” Maddie took a drink and sighed. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a drink of anything that wasn’t low carb. This is fabulous.”

“Are you still doing the Atkins?” Clare asked. For as long as she could remember, Maddie had been on one diet or another. It was a constant battle for her to remain in her size six jeans. Of course, as writers, spending so much time sitting put on a few pounds and was something they all battled. But for Maddie it was a never-ending struggle.

“I’m doing South Beach now,” she said.

“You should try going back to the gym,” Adele advised, and leaned her behind into the black granite countertop. Adele jogged five miles every morning out of fear that she would someday inherit her mother’s wide butt.

“No. I’ve belonged to four and quit each one after a few months.” Maddie shook her head. “The problem is I hate to sweat. It’s just so gross.”

Adele raised her glass to her lips. “It’s good for you to sweat out all the evil toxins in your body.”

“No. It’s good for you. I like my evil toxins to stay right where they are.”

Clare laughed and grabbed the bottle by the neck. “Maddie’s right. She should keep all her evil toxins buried deep and hidden from the unsuspecting world.” The three of them moved to the living room, which was stuffed with the antique furniture that had been in Clare’s family for generations. The arms of the medallion-back sofas and chairs were covered with doilies a great-grandmother or aunt had constructed with her own hands. She set the bottle on the marble-topped coffee table and took a seat in one of the high-backed chairs.

Maddie sat across from her on the sofa. “Have you ever thought of getting those guys from the Antiques Roadshow in here?”

“Why?” Clare asked, and picked a white thread from the left breast of her sleeveless black turtleneck.

“To tell you what some of this stuff is.” Maddie pointed in the direction of the burgundy gout footstool and the cherub pedestal.