I’m In No Mood For Love

Eleven

The first week of December, a light snow dusted the streets of downtown Boise and covered the foothills in pristine white. Holiday wreaths hung suspended from lampposts, and storefront windows were decked out for the season. Bundled-up shoppers crowded the sidewalks.

On the corner of Eighth and Main, “Holly Jolly Christmas” played softly inside The Piper Pub and Grille, the muted Muzak a fraction or two lower than the steady hum of voices. Gold, green, and red garlands added a festive air to the second-story restaurant.

“Happy holidays.” Clare held up her peppermint mocha and lightly touched glasses with her friends. The four women had just finished lunch and were enjoying flavored coffee instead of dessert.

“Merry Christmas,” Lucy toasted.

“Happy Hanukkah,” Adele said, although she wasn’t Jewish.

To cover all bases, Maddie added, “Happy Kwanzaa,” although she wasn’t African American, Pan African, or had ever set foot in Africa.

Lucy took a drink and said as she lowered her glass mug, “Oh, I almost forgot.” She dug around in her purse hanging on the back of her chair, then pulled out several envelopes. “I finally remembered to bring copies of the picture of us all together at the Halloween party.” She handed an envelope to Clare, who sat on her right, and two others across the table.

Lucy and her husband, Quinn, had thrown a costume party in their new house on Quill Ridge overlooking the city. Clare slipped the photo from the envelope and glanced at the picture of her in a bunny costume standing beside her three friends. Adele had dressed as a fairy with large gossamer wings, Maddie as a Sherlock Holmes, and Lucy had worn a naughty cop outfit. The party had been a lot of fun. Just what Clare needed after a difficult two and a half months. By the end of October her heartache had started to mend a little, and she’d even been asked out by Darth Vader. Without his helmet, Darth had been attractive in a macho-cop sort of way. He’d had a job, all his teeth and hair, and appeared to be one-hundred-percent heterosexual. The old Clare would have accepted his invitation to dinner with the subconscious hope that one man would ease the loss of another. But though she’d been flattered, she said no. It had been too soon to date.

“When’s your book signing?” Adele asked Clare.

She looked up and slipped the photo into her purse. “I have one at Borders on the tenth. Another at Walden’s on the twenty-fourth. I’m hoping to cash in on all those last-minute shoppers.” It had been almost five months now since she found Lonny with the Sears repairman, and she’d moved on. She no longer had to battle tears and her chest didn’t feel so tight and empty these days, but she still wasn’t ready to date. Not yet. Probably not for quite a while.

Adele took a sip of her coffee. “I’ll come to your signing on the tenth.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Lucy said.

“Me too. But I’m not going near the mall on the twenty-fourth.” Maddie looked up from the photo. “With the place so crowded, I’m more likely to run into an old boyfriend.”

Clare raised a hand. “Me too.”

“That reminds me, I have gossip.” Adele set her mug on the table. “I ran into Wren Jennings the other day, and she let it slip that she can’t find anyone interested in her next book proposal.”

Clare didn’t particularly like Wren, thought she had a huge ego but little talent to back it up. She’d done one book signing with Wren, and one was enough. Not only had Wren monopolized the whole two hours, she kept telling anyone who approached the table that she wrote “real historical romance. Not costume dramas.” Then she’d looked pointedly at Clare as if she were a felon. But not finding a publisher for your next book would be horrible. “Wow, that’s scary.”

Lucy nodded. “Yeah, no one tortures verbiage quite like Wren, but not having a publisher would be frightening.”

“What a huge relief for the Earth Firsters. No more trees have to die for Wren’s crappy books.”

Clare looked at Maddie and chuckled. “Meow.”

“Come on. You know that woman can’t even construct an intelligent sentence and wouldn’t know a decent plot if it bit her on the ass. And that’s a lot of ass.” Maddie frowned and glanced about at her friends. “I’m not the only catty one at this table. I just say what everyone is thinking.”

That was true enough. “Well,” Clare said, and raised her peppermint mocha to her lips, “every now and again I do have an overwhelming urge to lick my hands and wash my face.”

“And I have a desire to nap in the sun all day,” Lucy added.

Adele gasped. “Are you pregnant?”

“No.” Lucy held up her drink, which was laced with kahlua.

“Oh.” Adele’s excitement was instantly deflated. “I was hoping one of us hurries up and has a baby. I’m getting broody.”

“Don’t look at me.” Maddie shoved the Halloween photo in her bag. “I don’t have any desire to have children.”

“Never?”

“No. I think I’m one of the only women on the planet who was born without a burning desire to procreate.” Maddie shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind practicing with a good-looking man, though.”

Adele raised her coffee. “Ditto. Celibacy sucks.”

“Double ditto,” Clare said.

Lucy smiled. “I’ve got a good-looking man to practice with.”

Clare finished her coffee and reached for her purse. “Bragger.”

“I don’t want a man on a permanent basis,” Maddie insisted. “Snoring and hogging the blankets. That’s the good thing about having big Carlos. When I’m finished, I throw him back in the nightstand.”

One brow lifted up Lucy’s forehead. “Big Carlos? You named your…”

Maddie nodded. “I’ve always wanted a Latin lover.”

Clare looked around to see if anyone had overheard Maddie. “Sheesh, lower your voice.” None of the other diners were looking their way, and Clare turned back to her friends. “Sometimes you’re not safe in public.”

Maddie leaned across the table and whispered, “You have one.”

“I didn’t name it!”

“Then whose name do you call out?”

“No one’s.” She’d always been very quiet during sex and didn’t understand how or why a woman could or would lose her dignity and start hollering. She’d always thought she was good in bed. At least she tried to be, but a soft little murmur or moan was as loud as she got.

“If I were you, I’d practice with Sebastian Vaughan,” Adele said.

“Who?” Lucy wanted to know.

“Clare’s hot friend. He’s a journalist, and you can tell by looking at him that he knows what to put where and how often.”

“He lives in Seattle.” Clare hadn’t seen Sebastian since the night of Leo’s party. The night he’d kissed her and made her remember what is was like to be a woman. When he’d flamed the desire deep inside that she’d almost allowed her relationship with Lonny to extinguish. She didn’t know firsthand if Sebastian knew the who, what, where, when, and why, but he certainly knew how to kiss a woman. “I don’t think I’ll see him for another twenty years or so.” Leo had spent Thanksgiving in Seattle, and the last Clare had heard, he planned to spend Christmas there also. Which was sad. Leo had always spent Christmas day with her and Joyce. Clare would miss him. “I’ve got to get going,” she said, and stood. “I told my mother I’d help her with her Christmas party this year.”

Lucy looked up. “I thought you refused to help her after last year.”

“I know, but she behaved herself over Thanksgiving and didn’t mention Lonny’s aspic.” She reached for her wool peacoat on the back of her chair and shoved her arms inside. “It about killed her, but she didn’t mention Lonny at all. So as a reward, I said I’d help her.” She looped her red scarf around her neck. “I also made her promise to stop lying about what I write.”

“Do you think she’ll be able to keep her promise?”