Perfect Timing by Catherine Anderson
Black smoke coming from microwave. When Quincy burst into the kitchen, the aforementioned black smoke had filled the large room and he saw flames dancing through the sooty viewing window of the Miele Speed Oven. Ceara had come across a jar of his all-natural peanut butter in a cupboard, had trouble stirring the oil at the top into the dry mess at the bottom of the plastic jar, and had decided to soften the whole works by nuking it. Quincy wasn’t sure what had combusted, the plastic jar or the oil, but after turning on the exhaust fans, he had to drown the microwave with foam from a fire extinguisher to put out the blaze. His pricey Miele appliance had to be replaced.
Marriage, he decided, could be a costly venture. But even as he paid the tab, he couldn’t help but smile. Ceara brought so much joy and contentment into his life that he couldn’t complain about a few mishaps, expensive though they might be.
He felt more than a slight jolt of alarm when he came in from work one day to find Ceara pecking away at the keyboard of his business computer. The system held all his ranch records, and though he backed it up onto an exterior drive daily, he didn’t trust his wife not to accidentally wipe out everything with a few clicks of the wrong buttons. He ironed out that little wrinkle by taking her into town, where she could select her very own laptop. While she played with systems, wearing the sunglasses to hide her black eyes, Quincy wandered the software aisles, searching for educational games she might enjoy, at the top of his shopping list a typing program for kids that was entertainingly interactive. That night, he set Ceara up in her own little corner of his office, got her wireless Internet connected to his home network, and left her to play while he barbecued steaks, baked a couple of spuds, and made a salad for dinner.
Later, when they sat across from each other at the kitchen table, sipping wine and enjoying the meal, Quincy gazed across the flickering tea lights that Ceara insisted on using for every evening meal and wondered how any woman with two eyes splotched with purple and soot gray could possibly be so beautiful.
“I’m in love with you,” Quincy blurted. For a second, he wasn’t sure what had prompted him to say the words aloud, but then he realized he’d been thinking them plenty, and it seemed only right to get them out in the open. “I mean, I really, truly love you, Ceara. I don’t know exactly when it happened—or even how it happened—but it’s a done deal for me. I’m head-over-bootheels, crazy in love with you.”
Chewing daintily on a bite of steak, she pocketed the meat in her cheek, smiled dreamily at him, and replied, “When you walk in at night, me heart does a dance, and I feel happy and warm in me middle just like when I drink champagne.”
That was it? Quincy wanted to hear other words from her, notably that she loved him back, but recalling the aftermath of their wedding night, with him expecting words from her that she couldn’t say, he decided to settle for whatever he got. If he made her heart dance, that was good. Right? And making her feel all warm in the middle wasn’t half-bad, either. They were happy together. They laughed a lot. The sex was phenomenal. He’d be crazy to nitpick.
Just then Quincy’s cell phone whinnied. A text from Clint. He opened it up. I’m glad to know your wife likes your ass, but I think she meant the pic to go to Loni. Quincy’s stomach clenched. Clint had forwarded Ceara’s text back to him, and he half expected to see his bare butt shining. He was relieved to see only the seat of his jeans. He glanced up at Ceara.
“’Tis bad news?”
Quincy shut down the phone. “No, good news, actually.” His wife thought he had a sexy ass. He wasn’t sure how he felt about her sending the hens texts about certain parts of his anatomy, but he sure as hell couldn’t complain about the sentiment she’d wanted to share. “Clint just sent me a little joke.”
Her cheek dimpled in a smile. “’Tis good he is feeling happy again. Loni grows stronger every day. She and Aliza walked over to Dee Dee’s fer the midday meal today, and after resting, she was strong enough to walk all the way home.”
After Quincy and Ceara set the kitchen to rights, he volunteered thirty minutes to show her the different features of her new iPhone and then gave her advanced lessons on texting. “It’s easy to send a text to the wrong person on this particular device. So when you begin a text, look at the top of your screen to check to whom your text will be sent.”
Her cheeks went rosy. She glanced up with a worried look in her blue eyes. “Have I sent texts to wrong people?” she asked.
Quincy had no desire to humiliate her, but he didn’t wish to lie to her, either. He settled on saying, “It’s just a big possibility, so from now on, when you’re texting, always check to be sure of the recipient.”
Ceara hunched her shoulders, scowling down at her phone as she tapped the screen to zip back and forth between message threads. Quincy pretended not to notice as he got a beer from the fridge. As he screwed off the cap, he stared at the bottle for a long moment, wondering when over the last four weeks he’d started drinking again. It was kind of like love, he guessed, one of those things that sneaked up on a guy and hooked into him before he quite knew how it happened.
“Oh, dear,” Ceara said, her voice ringing with dismay. “I sent the picture of yer backside to Clint, not Loni.” She glanced up. “’Tis what he texted you about.”
Quincy shrugged. “No big.” He couldn’t stifle a grin. “I’m just glad to know you like my backside.”
Ceara sighed. “’Tis verra careful I must be when I text.”
Quincy figured she probably would be from now on, and distracted her with an introduction to the universal and iPad remote controls, which operated all the stereo, television, and Internet entertainment options. At one point, Ceara had everything on at once, the stereo in party mode, with different music playing in every room, and a Netflix movie blasting on the flat screen at an ear-shattering volume. Though she sent Quincy panicked visual appeals for help, he stood at her side with his arms folded, determined to let her punch buttons until she figured it out by herself. Smart young woman that she was, she eventually mastered the devices, and blessed silence settled over the house again.
Quincy took that as his cue to carry his wife upstairs to what she still called their bedchamber to cap off the evening by making slow, passionate love to her.
* * *
The Erotic Parrot. Excitement bubbled in Ceara’s chest as Rainie steered Loni’s new Suburban into the parking lot of the establishment. The building was painted a gaudy purple with pink trim, but Ceara decided the colors were fitting, because this was the home of Mr. Purple, not to mention a huge selection of sexy lingerie, according to the hens. Mr. Purple. Ceara couldn’t wait to see an electronic boyfriend.
“I didn’t think your black eyes would ever go away!” Loni hooked arms with Ceara after they exited the vehicle. “It’s too bad you hate sunglasses. We could have gone shopping a week ago.”
Walking behind them, Dee Dee said, “You weren’t up to it a week ago, Loni, and I’m holding you to your promise to say something if you start to get tired.”
“I promise, I promise,” Loni said with a laugh. “Do you know how long it’s been since we had a girls’ day of shopping? I was thinking last night. It’s been well over six months. I didn’t miss it at the time. I think I was starting to get sick long before I realized it. No energy for fun stuff.”
“And this will be fun,” Rainie said over her shoulder as she pushed open the glass door. “Quincy won’t know what hit him.”
“My poor brother,” Sam cried. “You guys don’t give him credit for all his fine qualities.”
“Yes, we do,” Mandy objected. “It’s just that he’s always been so uptight. It’s high time to make him loosen up.”
Jostled along by the giggling hens, Ceara entered the shop and was instantly dazzled by the displays. To her right, there was a rack of transparent lingerie with sparkly patterns that shone like diamonds in the rays of sunlight coming through the front windows. Another rack held more transparent garments trimmed in bright-colored feathers.
“Decadent, huh?” Mandy chirped with a grin. “Boy, I love this place. Every time I come, I make Zach’s eyes pop out of his head that night.”
Dee Dee chimed in with, “I like that they haven’t overlooked us older gals with mature figures.” She skimmed a palm over her well-padded hip, which looked delightfully round beneath what she called her go-to-town black slacks. “Even us dinosaurs like to look sexy.”
“You’re not a dinosaur,” protested Rainie who glimmered like a sun-drenched rainbow in a swirly hued blue skirt and a metallic gold peasant blouse topped by a multicolored shawl threaded with more shimmery yellow, which she’d chosen to wear that day to celebrate the spurt of warm weather. “You’re pretty as a picture, and I know Dad would second that vote.”
Dee Dee stopped at a glass box filled with odd-looking things that came in all different colors and were shaped like the corncobs Quincy had barbecued on the grill one night. A young woman, boxed in by other glass cases, moved close to smile at Dee Dee over the counter. “Anything particular in mind today, ladies?”
Rainie bent over to peer in. “Oh, wow! Look at this gold-plated one, Ceara. You could name him Mr. Midas.”
Ceara realized then that the shiny corncobs were what the hens called electronic boyfriends—proper nomenclature, according to Quincy, vibrators. Mildly disappointed because they didn’t look very impressive, Ceara joined Rainie at the glass and pretended to be more interested than she actually was.
The clerk smiled and said, “The gold one is top-of-the-line, with five different sensation settings. All my ladies who’ve bought one absolutely love it.”
“Test run,” Mandy piped in.
“Definitely,” Sam agreed.
The saleswoman used a key to open the backside of the case and plucked Mr. Midas from his black velvet perch. She handed the apparatus to Rainie. “Try the highest setting, the French Tickle. I hear that the men like it even more than the women do.”
Ceara gaped as Rainie pressed a button to make Mr. Midas come alive and then used a slide control to go through the settings with the gadget resting on her palm. “Nice.” She glanced over her shoulder at the other hens. “I mean, ooh-la-la. This thing rocks and rolls.”
She handed Mr. Midas to Ceara, who was so startled by the vibration that she nearly dropped it. “’Tis wiggling. What makes it wiggle?”
“Batteries,” Loni chimed in. “Always make sure you’ve got plenty of D batts, sister dear. There’s nothing more deflating than an electronic boyfriend in dud mode.”
“She’ll take it,” Rainie said. “Ceara, where’s your credit card?”
“You did bring it, I hope,” Sam said.
“I did! Quincy got me one of me own and says I can spend as much as I wish.”
“Well, we’ll make him wish he’d given you a limit,” Dee Dee said with a laugh.
Quincy had lent Ceara a leather coin pouch to carry the card, because she had no purse. As she reached into the pocket of her skirt, the saleswoman said, “No hurry with that unless you’re finished shopping.”
Rainie hooked elbows with Ceara. “Oh, she has heaps more shopping to do. Can we just bring all her selections here and leave them on the counter?”
“Absolutely.”
Ceara found herself being guided by the hens into the bowels of the shop. She felt like a bit of flotsam being swept along by a wave. An hour later, she and all the hens left the establishment with the handles of pretty purple sacks looped over their arms. Ceara carried three that were filled with sparkly, feathery, and lacy nightwear, several pairs of skimpy panties, three half-cup bras, and her very own gold-plated electronic boyfriend, already christened Mr. Midas.
“Now for some more practical shopping.” Rainie’s voice rang out in the sun-washed April breeze. “She needs some everyday underthings and at least a couple of outfits that will knock Quincy’s eyes out. The first time I helped her shop, I focused on modesty and layers. This time, I’m thinking tight-to-the calf black boots with heels, a skinny black skirt that hits just above the knee, and a dynamite top of some kind.”
“I’m dying to see her in a green knit top,” Sam said. “Jade, I think. With her hair, can you just imagine?”
“Lunch first.” Mandy placed a hand over her middle. “I’m starving!”
They ate at a place the hens called a fish house. Once seated at the large round table, Ceara glanced at the dining area, trying to determine why it was called a fish house, because she saw no fish anywhere. But she could smell what might be fish cooking somewhere in the building. Dee Dee helped Ceara order—halibut in a light butter-lemon sauce with baby red potatoes, steamed broccoli, a house salad, and a glass of white zinfandel.
Ceara enjoyed the food and wine, but the conversation was even more fun. The hens felt free to talk about anything and everything: sex, new recipes, sex, kids, housekeeping, sex, college courses, husbands, marital spats, and, of course, more about sex. Ceara discovered that people coupled in very strange places—closets, laundry rooms, on top of desks or tables, in the shower, and even in bathtubs. Ceara had only ever been with Quincy in bed, and by comparison, she felt boring. That led to an alarming thought. Did Quincy think she was boring?
Before she could agonize overlong about that, Rainie leveled a finger at her and said, “Hair.”
Mandy giggled. “I’ve been thinking exactly the same thing.” She sent Ceara an apologetic look. “Not that your hair isn’t beautiful. I mean, that color red is totally choice. Women probably pay a fortune to get anywhere close. But the length?” Mandy shrugged. “Ya got no style, sister.”
“Style?” Ceara repeated.
Rainie ran her hands back and forth over her blond-streaked tresses, making them go every which way, and then shook her head to make them fall back into place. “That is style. A little bit sexy, sort of bed-head once it’s mussed, and easy to keep up. It’s all about the cut.” She eyed Ceara’s face. “I’m betting you have heaps of natural curl with all those little wisps that aren’t tamed by your braid.”
“Just below the shoulder would look fab,” Loni inserted.
“And layered, definitely layered,” Mandy added.
“It would be lovely,” Dee Dee agreed.
“And so much easier to take care of if it were shorter,” Loni observed.
In Ceara’s time, women cut their hair only if they accidently singed it while cooking over the fire. Then again, women in her time never sank chin-deep in Quincy’s lovely whirlpool tub and got their tresses caught in the outtake valve. “Shorter,” she mused. “’Twould be nice, I think.”
“Unanimous?” Sam asked. Then she grinned. “If we’re going to loosen Quincy up, we may as well give him such a jolt we unseat all his bolts.”
Chapter Twelve
Quincy had washed up in the arena restroom, so as he paced off the distance from the arena to the house, the nip of the early evening April breeze sank its teeth through the damp shoulder seams of his work shirt, making him shiver. He’d chosen not to wear a jacket and now regretted it. As sunny as the central Oregon weather had been all day, it was now, with the arrival of twilight, turning colder than a witch’s tit after a long ride on her broom in freezing temperatures.
Bubba and Billy Bob weren’t snoozing on the porch, which told Quincy that both his mutts were inside with their lady. Ceara had won them over completely, and both dogs now preferred to forgo stable time to stay at the house with her. Quincy didn’t mind, not really. He loved his Aussies, but seeing the glow on Ceara’s face as she fussed over them pleased him. What made her happy made him happy. That was the long and short of it.
He stomped his boots as he scaled the steps and then wiped them as clean as he could on the hemp welcome mat before he entered the kitchen. After taking one step into the room, he froze. A slender redhead stood before the Viking cooktop. She was a vision, with burnished curls tumbling onto her shoulders and partway down her back. She wore a green knit top, a little black skirt that showed plenty of leg, an
Quincy forgot to close the door behind him. “Where’s Ceara?” And who the hell are you? He bit back that question. The gal was cooking. Ceara had spent the day out shopping with the hens. Maybe they had convinced her to hire a full-time housekeeper. “My wife, Ceara, where is she?”
Billy Bob and Bubba, snoozing at her feet, both came awake at the rumble of Quincy’s voice. Tongues lolling, they gave him happy grins and lumbered erect before racing toward him, losing traction on the slate in the process and bumping into each other with ferocious play growls, eager for a hello rub and scratch behind the ears.
The woman turned from the stove, and Quincy forgot all about greeting his dogs. Ceara? Sweet Christ. What had happened to his precious sixteenth-century lady with that incredibly beautiful face bare of cosmetics, impossibly long hair, and layers of clothes to hide her body? Now—dear God—he felt a little faint. Her hair was a gloriously shorter flame of riotous curls that showcased an absolutely perfect countenance, artfully enhanced with shadow, blush, mascara, and a glimmer of lipstick. And from the neck down? Holy hell, a digital billboard flashing, SCREW ME, couldn’t have sent a louder message.
Quincy closed the door by going weak at the knees and collapsing back against it. She wore a dark green top that clung to every curve, enhancing her small but delectable breasts. The black skirt hugged her hips and dived pencil-straight to just above her dimpled knees. Skintight calf boots with kick-ass spiked heels completed the outfit. His mouth went dryer than arena sand, and his tongue felt as if it had been glued to the roof of his mouth. The first time he’d ever seen Ceara, he’d known that she was world-class in almost every way, but never had he imagined she could look like this. If he took her into one of his old honky-tonk haunts, he’d end up in a fistfight, because every cowboy in the joint would be drooling over her—literally—with their collective saliva pooling in the cleavage of her breasts.
“Holy hell, what have you done?”