Sandwiched. Jennifer Archer

finding Mom’s newest kitchen gadget in the silverware drawer.

      First Bert, now Mother. Wouldn’t you know it? At the age of seventy-five, even she has more of a sex life than I do.

      LATER IN THE EVENING, after a trip with Mother to the grocery store, she cooks a dinner that brings back memories of all those childhood meals she mumbled about earlier. She, Erin and I actually sit at the kitchen table rather than at the coffee table in the den, my usual place to dine. We carry on a conversation instead of watching the news.

      Afterward, stuffed with savory fried chicken, garlic mashed potatoes and fresh green beans, Erin and I clear the table while Mother takes off to watch Wheel of Fortune. An apple cobbler bubbles and browns in my oven; Mother left the oven light on, and I glance at her culinary masterpiece with longing each time I pass by. I’m not sure why, maybe it’s the foreign aromas of cinnamon and spice drifting through my kitchen, but I’m unusually relaxed and content as my daughter and I load the dishwasher together.

      “I’m going to rent a movie, then watch it at Suzanna’s,” Erin declares when we finish.

      “Before you leave, I want to see your concert dress.”

      “I didn’t find one. I’ll try again tomorrow or next week.”

      “Make it some time I can go with you.”

      Erin crosses her arms; her eyes shift away from mine. “It’s no big deal. Suzanna will help me.”

      Okay, I admit it; for the second time in one day I feel like an overemotional teenager. Only now, instead of butting heads with my mother, my best friend is replacing me with someone else. I can’t help it; silly or not, I’m jealous.

      “What about that book report you said was due on Monday?”

      “I’m not doing homework on a Saturday night. I’ll work on it tomorrow.”

      “Be home by eleven.” I eye her tight hip-hugging jeans, the inch of bare flesh between them and her T-shirt. Revealing so much skin is a new look for Erin. A fashion side effect of her friendship with Suzanna, I imagine. Though I don’t like the change, I’ve decided not to make a big deal of it. I counsel families with kids younger than Erin who are promiscuous, have alcohol problems and worse. If an exposed navel is the most I have to deal with, I count myself lucky. I’ll just keep an eye on her and make sure that’s as far as it goes. “Got your mace?” I ask.

      She gives me the eye-roll she spent middle school perfecting. “You know it’s on my key ring.”

      “Just make sure you keep it in your hand if you’re returning the movie and walking through the store parking lot after dark.”

      “I know, Mom.” She hugs me and laughs. “You’ve only told me a million and one times. Anyway, there’s a movie drop. I won’t even have to get out of the car.”

      “Let Maxwell in and feed him before you go.”

      After Erin leaves and Wheel of Fortune ends, Mother and I watch CNN together while eating ice-cream-smothered pie. Maxwell peers at us with pleading eyes. He sits in front of the sofa, whining quietly each time I lift my spoon. Mother gives me The Look again when I place my bowl on the floor to let him lick it. I laugh at her and proceed to fold a couple of loads of laundry.

      I’m placing a stack of clean underwear on Erin’s dresser when I see the novel on her bedside table. I figure it must be the assigned book for her report since I’ve never known my daughter to read a novel unless it’s required. I hope she’s not getting sidetracked by her newfound social life and putting off the report until the last minute. But I remind myself that, though she’s spending more time with friends these days, it’s still not in Erin’s nature to procrastinate. She’s a typical only child. Fairly responsible as teenagers go.

      I walk over, pick up the paperback, read the title. Penelope’s Passion. A hazy cover creates the effect of looking through steam at a woman’s naked back. A man’s hand lifts the damp, curling tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck. I have my doubts Erin’s English teacher chose this particular read.

      Settling at the edge of my daughter’s bed, I open the book to a random page.

      Penelope sensed rather than heard the captain’s approach. Pulling the sheet to her breast, she watched the door…and waited. Her heart fluttered like hummingbird wings, her stomach felt as unsteady as the ship, tossed and swayed by the turbulent sea.

      Flickering candlelight painted shadows on the walls. For only a moment, Penelope glanced away to watch them dance, and when she looked back, he stood there…filling the doorway…his dark eyes devouring her, looking more a pirate than captain of a ship. His unbuttoned shirt revealed a powerful expanse of muscled chest. The sight of it made Penelope aware of her own chest, bare beneath the bed sheet. Her only garment had mysteriously disappeared while she bathed, so she’d had no choice but to retire naked.

      Penelope lifted her chin. “Do you intend to rape me, Sir?”

      The captain pulled off his shirt as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “Since you now share my name, I intend to consummate our marriage.”

      She kept her gaze on his face, too nervous to glance lower at his body, afraid if she did he might see the excitement in her eyes when she looked up again. “And if I refuse you, Captain?”

      He chuckled, his smile quick and heart-stopping. Then he reached for the buckle on his belt and moved closer to the bed.

      Penelope could no longer refrain. She glanced at his broad chest, then lower still, down his flat, muscle-corded belly to the thin line of dark hair that trailed to the top of his breeches. Her breath caught, her stomach tightened involuntarily and a warm, sweet ache spread like heated honey through her limbs. To her shame, she yearned to touch him, yearned for him to touch her in all the places no man ever had, or should.

      “Dear Lady,” he said, his voice a deep, arousing caress, “you won’t refuse me.”

      “Well, hell,” I mutter, closing the book. Penelope isn’t the only one with a warm, sweet ache.

      First Bert, then Mother, now Erin.

      Maybe the person who came up with the old saying, “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” knew what he or she was talking about.

      Tucking Penelope’s Passion beneath my arm, I leave Erin’s room. At the end of the hallway, I poke my head around the corner into the den where Mother sits knitting and watching TV, with Maxwell snoring on the rug at her feet. The knitting needles click out a rhythmic beat.

      “I think I’ll turn in early and catch up on some reading.” Mother’s needles pause. The clicking stops. She looks up at me. “I hope for once you’re reading for pleasure instead of for work.”

      The corner of my mouth spasms as I think of Penelope’s captain. “Purely for pleasure tonight, Mother. You have my word.”

      CHAPTER 2

      To: [email protected]

      From: [email protected]

      Date: 11/1 Saturday

      Subject: Tonight

      Hey. Meet me at the mall at 11:30. We’ll eat, then shop for something to wear out tonight to The Beat. You’re going. No excuses.

      I look at the outfit spread across Suzanna’s bed and wish I’d never checked my e-mail this morning. The skintight, one-sleeved red-and-black striped top will leave one shoulder completely bare, while the pleated black pinstriped miniskirt is barely long enough to cover my scrawny butt. But the worst of it all sits in an open box; a pair of ankle-high, pointy-toed red boots with buckles on the sides and short spiked heels.

      This afternoon at the mall, I gave into Suzanna’s arm-twisting and bought it all. It seemed like a good idea at the time. The outfit was great for laughs in the dressing room. But the thought of actually wearing