Heated. Niobia Bryant

once told him that it hurt her that he made time in his life for a wife when he hadn’t made time for his daughter.

      That she held on to, protected, shielded.

      As she stood at her second-story bedroom window and looked down at the wedding she refused to attend, Bianca made the decision to leave her father in the chaos he created. Bianca rescinded her decision to attend a local university. The further she got away, the better.

      She left for college in Georgia that summer and hadn’t been back since.

      Bianca turned away from the photo, but her memories—very painful recollections—remained. Her relationship with her father was barely visible. They spoke on the phone sporadically and went through motions.

      Pathetic as hell, she thought.

      Releasing a heavy breath, Bianca strolled out of the study and headed toward the rear of the house to her kitchen. She was ready to fall into her bed and sleep away the hours, but she had appointments at the clinic, so rest would have to wait.

      Bianca hoped some of her “kick-ass” iced coffee would get her going again.

      Soon the slow drip-drip of the coffee maker seemed to be the only sound in the house. Most considered that quiet to be peaceful, restful, and precious. To Bianca it was the sound of living alone, which she refused to equate to being lonely. Sometimes, however, she thought that the sound of children laughing and a husband showering to prepare for his workday would be… peaceful, restful, and precious.

      With her last date being more than two months ago perhaps the line between alone and lonely was thinning to the width of a strand of hair.

      “Maybe I need a dog,” she muttered, pouring a large cup of coffee that she sweetened and lightened considerably before pouring it over a tall cup of crushed ice.

      Bianca took a deep sip. “Liquid crack,” she sighed.

      She was strolling out of the kitchen when there was a knock at her kitchen door. She smiled at the sight of her nearest neighbor and friend, Mimi Cooley, peering through the glass of the door.

      “Let me in, Sweetie, before people think I’m a Peeping Tom, okay,” Mimi said in that odd voice of hers that was a blend of nasal whining and Southern belle haughtiness.

      Mimi was an ex–child star of the popular Seventies sitcom, Just the Two of Us. At thirteen, the show was canceled and, unfortunately, her acting career ended. Her family moved from Hollywood back to Atlanta and tried to give Mimi as normal a life as possible.

      But normalcy and Mimi didn’t go in the same sentence.

      She married the first of her seven husbands at eighteen—men who were wealthy and a tad bit older than Mimi. At fifty she now lived off syndication from the show and the hundreds of television commercials she did during her childhood career. She never got used to the idea of a nine to five job, and spent her days shopping and drinking Long Island iced teas—without showing one indication of being drunk or even tipsy.

      Regardless of the time of day, Mimi was always dressed to the nines: heels and skirts, slacks and spectator pumps, and not a pair of jeans to be seen. Her make-up was always in place, and her hair was perfectly coiffed—and religiously died jet black—like she was the second coming of Diahann Carroll’s character on Dynasty.

      Mimi was one of a kind, and Bianca loved the diva to death.

      “Hi, Mimi.”

      She breezed in with a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and turquoise silk. “I thought I was going to have to retire and collect Social Security before you let me in, darling.”

      “How can I help you, Mimi… dah-ling?”

      “Well, a shot of brandy wouldn’t hurt a bit, Sweetie,” Mimi said, moving across the kitchen to set her purse on the center island.

      “For 8 A.M. coffee sounds like a better bet,” Bianca countered.

      “Some barkeep you make. All that advice without the actual, huh, what… liquor, that’s right, Sweetie.”

      “Nothing but coffee ’round here,” Bianca said, taking a deep sip of her iced brew. “Want a cup?”

      Mimi rolled her elaborately made-up eyes—she was so dramatic. “Sweetie, I’d rather be buried in a Wal-Mart, okay,” she said with a shiver.

      Bianca doubted Mimi had even seen the inside of a Wal-Mart, or even knew where to find one. She frowned as she watched Mimi open her purse and extract a silver monogrammed flask.

      “Bianca, a lady is always, huh, what… prepared, that’s right,” she said, before taking a small swig. “Now, I usually have the cul de sac all to myself this time of day. Whatcha doing home, Sweetie?”

      “A mare foaled last night.”

      Mimi wiped the corners of her mouth with her index finger and politely placed the flask back in her purse. “Honey, I’m waiting for the English translation, okay, right.”

      Bianca smiled as she folded her arms over her chest and leaned back against the marble counter. “I delivered a horse’s baby,” she explained patiently, ready for the drama. Mimi didn’t fail her one bit.

      She made a comical face of pain as she pressed her knees together.

      Mimi didn’t have any children. Bianca didn’t know if it was by choice or not.

      Deciding to egg her on Bianca said, “Pulling the foal out with chains by its legs wasn’t the hard part—”

      Mimi shivered and crossed her slender legs.

      “Now sticking my arm inside the horse’s vagina to turn the foal—”

      Mimi pretended to gag. “T.M.I., Doc. T… M… I.”

      Bianca flung her head back and laughed, unable to stop the hoglike snort that always came with her laughter. T.M.I. was Mimi’s acronym, for “too much information.”

      “I don’t know what’s worse, Sweetie. The image of your arm up a horse’s ass or that laugh, Sweetie. You need to, huh, what… work on it, that’s right.”

      “Shut up, Mimi,” Bianca said with a deadpan expression. “At least I’m not known for the oh-so-clever sitcom saying “You and me makes we.”

      Mimi looked off into the distance—something she did whenever she was discussing the sitcom. “Oh, yes. A better time. And it kept me from being lined up to swallow the scent of horse ass, Sweetie.”

      Bianca had to laugh at that one. “Listen, this is fun, but some people got a job, Mimi.”

      She rose, sticking her purse under her arm. “Alright, Sweetie, I’m going. I have a save the children or feed the whales breakfast thingy.”

      “Isn’t it Save the Whales and Feed the Children?”

      Mimi just waved her hand before moving to the kitchen door. “As long as they can cash the check, they don’t care what I call it.”

      Bianca shook her head.

      Mimi opened the door and paused, turning to look at Bianca. “Listen, Sweetie, is what they say about a male horse’s… uhm, well, you know… jingy-thingy. Is that… is that true, Sweetie?”

      Very tongue in cheek, Bianca answered, “Big as my arm,” with a meaningful stare.

      Mimi sighed as she patted her perfectly coiffed French roll and leaned a little against the door with a soft smile.

      “Mimi?” Bianca said to nudge the woman out of her reverie.

      “Just made me think of Vincent, my third husband, Sweetie. Now it’s so hard to say he was good for nothing.”

      With nothing to say about that, Bianca started walking out the kitchen. “Goodbye, Mimi,” she called over her shoulder.

      “Toodles, Sweetie.”

      The