to anger him or
hurt his masculine pride. “It’s not that I don’t find you
attractive. It’s just too fast, too soon and that wouldn’t be good
for either one of us.”
Charles nodded and took a step back. The
charming smile was back in place. “You’re right, of course, but I
want you to know I’ll be back. I have a feeling, Elizabeth
Reynolds; you’re the key to my dreams.”
Elizabeth sat heavily in the rocker and
watched him disappear into the trees at the side of the house where
Max claimed there was only a steep and impassable ravine.
Chapter 11
Elizabeth spent the afternoon or evening as
it was called here in the mountains, ruminating. All right, moping,
but the smaller word made it seem like a larger fault. She tried to
write, but Cassandra’s character had fallen flat and Morton was
nowhere to be found which is exactly where she was with Marshall
and Charles. Nowhere. Shouldn’t there be a plot in there
somewhere?
One woman. Two men. The very sight of them
sent her body singing and zinging and had her nether regions doing
tiny pirouettes that made her squirm with anticipation. One, an
upright local sheriff, well respected and loved by his community.
The other, a mysterious stranger with a mysterious past. Both were
handsome, but she’d met handsome men before and they never made her
breasts feel like a pair of twelve year old girls at a boy band
concert.
These feelings coursing around inside her
made her ashamed and excited at the same time. Ashamed because at
thirty two, she apparently didn’t have enough self-control to tame
her body’s sexual urges and excited because, tamed or not, she
finally had some.
But no matter how hard she reasoned or
analyzed, she couldn’t fathom why. The water up here was good, but
not that good. The mountain air was certainly invigorating,
but if its fresh air were the cause, Rabbit Creek would be the
vacation capital of the world. Now that wolves and snakes were
things of the past, she was sleeping better at night than she had
in years. But if a good night’s sleep caused this kind of reaction,
mattress companies would have it plastered all over television and
billboards across the country. She probably would have read the
study on it.
No, none of those things made sense. Like
Sherlock Holmes in The Blanched Soldier , she had eliminated
all that was impossible and was left with only the improbable
truth. And bless his analytical heart, Sigmund Freud would most
likely agree. It was her mother’s fault.
Mother was the perfect hostess, the perfect
small town socialite, the perfect wife. She wanted the same life
for her only child. So, from the time Elizabeth was old enough to
toddle, she was raised to meet her mother’s social expectations.
Unfortunately, Elizabeth wasn’t very good at it.
Dancing lessons were a disaster; piano and
voice painful to the ear. Neatly braided hair came home from school
in lopsided pigtails and while Elizabeth made it through ice
skating lessons relatively unscathed, she spoiled the season by
breaking her arm trying to climb the stacks at the library to reach
a book on the top shelf.
Elizabeth tried; how she tried. She observed
those around her like an anthropologist observing the culture of a
previously undiscovered tribe. No matter how much she read and
studied and analyzed, she simply couldn’t understand the
intricacies of her mother’s social status. Over time, she learned
to live her life by a series of lists thoughtfully provided by her
mother. These lists worked so well, or so she thought, that she
started making her own.
So it went, until six months ago when, after
another socially acceptable affair ended badly, Elizabeth realized
that her unhappiness had nothing to do with the loss of a man and
everything to do with the loss of herself.
She wasn’t her mother, could never be her
mother, and she was so very, very tired of pretending she
could.
She made her plans and started searching for
a place
hurt his masculine pride. “It’s not that I don’t find you
attractive. It’s just too fast, too soon and that wouldn’t be good
for either one of us.”
Charles nodded and took a step back. The
charming smile was back in place. “You’re right, of course, but I
want you to know I’ll be back. I have a feeling, Elizabeth
Reynolds; you’re the key to my dreams.”
Elizabeth sat heavily in the rocker and
watched him disappear into the trees at the side of the house where
Max claimed there was only a steep and impassable ravine.
Chapter 11
Elizabeth spent the afternoon or evening as
it was called here in the mountains, ruminating. All right, moping,
but the smaller word made it seem like a larger fault. She tried to
write, but Cassandra’s character had fallen flat and Morton was
nowhere to be found which is exactly where she was with Marshall
and Charles. Nowhere. Shouldn’t there be a plot in there
somewhere?
One woman. Two men. The very sight of them
sent her body singing and zinging and had her nether regions doing
tiny pirouettes that made her squirm with anticipation. One, an
upright local sheriff, well respected and loved by his community.
The other, a mysterious stranger with a mysterious past. Both were
handsome, but she’d met handsome men before and they never made her
breasts feel like a pair of twelve year old girls at a boy band
concert.
These feelings coursing around inside her
made her ashamed and excited at the same time. Ashamed because at
thirty two, she apparently didn’t have enough self-control to tame
her body’s sexual urges and excited because, tamed or not, she
finally had some.
But no matter how hard she reasoned or
analyzed, she couldn’t fathom why. The water up here was good, but
not that good. The mountain air was certainly invigorating,
but if its fresh air were the cause, Rabbit Creek would be the
vacation capital of the world. Now that wolves and snakes were
things of the past, she was sleeping better at night than she had
in years. But if a good night’s sleep caused this kind of reaction,
mattress companies would have it plastered all over television and
billboards across the country. She probably would have read the
study on it.
No, none of those things made sense. Like
Sherlock Holmes in The Blanched Soldier , she had eliminated
all that was impossible and was left with only the improbable
truth. And bless his analytical heart, Sigmund Freud would most
likely agree. It was her mother’s fault.
Mother was the perfect hostess, the perfect
small town socialite, the perfect wife. She wanted the same life
for her only child. So, from the time Elizabeth was old enough to
toddle, she was raised to meet her mother’s social expectations.
Unfortunately, Elizabeth wasn’t very good at it.
Dancing lessons were a disaster; piano and
voice painful to the ear. Neatly braided hair came home from school
in lopsided pigtails and while Elizabeth made it through ice
skating lessons relatively unscathed, she spoiled the season by
breaking her arm trying to climb the stacks at the library to reach
a book on the top shelf.
Elizabeth tried; how she tried. She observed
those around her like an anthropologist observing the culture of a
previously undiscovered tribe. No matter how much she read and
studied and analyzed, she simply couldn’t understand the
intricacies of her mother’s social status. Over time, she learned
to live her life by a series of lists thoughtfully provided by her
mother. These lists worked so well, or so she thought, that she
started making her own.
So it went, until six months ago when, after
another socially acceptable affair ended badly, Elizabeth realized
that her unhappiness had nothing to do with the loss of a man and
everything to do with the loss of herself.
She wasn’t her mother, could never be her
mother, and she was so very, very tired of pretending she
could.
She made her plans and started searching for
a place
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