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I pop a chocolate-covered strawberry into my mouth. “Hey. You promised not to judge.”
“Girl, I’m not judging. I’m jealous as hell. You hear that?” There’s a scream in the background. “My toddlers—yes, both of them—are teething. The baby is going through a sleep regression, and the dog has some horrible anal parasite thing that’s just—well, I’ll spare you the details. To top it all off, Jane is out of town all weekend at some genius surgeon conference. So while you’re flying to a five-star resort to fuck a famous dude, I’ll be here trying to keep my kids from swimming in the toilet. Yes, that’s happened, and yes, there was shit involved. Literal shit.”
“Domesticity is just as magical as they said it would be, isn’t it?”
“Ugh.”
“There’s a reason marriage and me don’t mix.”
“I want a do-over. Actually, I just want to be you. Have hotel sex and sleep in for me, okay?”
I sip my champagne. “I will. Good luck.”
“And hey—if something goes wrong, I can be in Asheville in two hours, three tops.”
“Kate, the drive takes four.”
“Not in my minivan, it doesn’t.”
“Just don’t drive that minivan off a bridge, okay?”
“I have three children under the age of four. I make no promises. Have fun. And be safe. And be sure to keep me updated. I want details. I may be married, but I’m not dead.”
I already read the itinerary for the weekend Hank sent over a few days ago. But I pull up the email on my phone anyway and read it again, sparks of anticipation darting up my spine as I scan the now-familiar schedule of events.
Friday 2/12: 4:47 PM flight arrives in Asheville. Airport pickup provided. 6:30 PM: Sunday Supper at Samuel’s house (family will be in attendance)(and no, I did not fuck up the days . . . we usually have Sunday supper as a family every week, but because of the engagement party, we bumped it to Friday)
Saturday 2/13: 8 AM morning sex (if you’re in the mood). 9 AM.: Coffee in bed. 12 PM: Lady Luck Brewhouse Tasting at Stag Pavilion with Beau, CEO of Blue Mountain Farm Incorporated; Samuel Beauregard, Director of the farm’s Food Program; and Emma Crawford, Director of our Wine & Beverage Program. 7 PM: Samuel + Emma’s engagement party in The Library, Main House.
Sunday 2/14: 8 AM morning sex (please be in the mood). 9 AM: Coffee in bed 11 AM: Brunch with the family (maybe) Afternoon: Free. Ever been to the Biltmore?
Monday 2/15: 12:15 PM flight departs from Asheville.
Grinning, I tuck my phone into my bag and look out the window. It’s what I end up doing for the rest of the forty-five-minute flight, my mind wandering. I’m excited. And tired, the way I always am on Friday evenings.
And turned on.
When my marriage fell apart, part of me wondered if my sex life was dead for good. I was still sensitive to the horribly sexist, completely ageist cultural messaging that women in their late thirties—especially curvy women—are pitiful, not sexy. A few well-intentioned but ignorant acquaintances even counseled me to stay with my ex. I could read between the lines; they didn’t think I’d find someone better.
Someone who could make me happy and who could make me come to boot. Because clearly, that was too much to ask.
Lots of therapy and life experience later, I’m happy to report they were wrong. Not only have I had the best sex of my life over the past three years, my recent dry spell notwithstanding; sipping my champagne, I know I’m having the time of my life too.
Don’t get me wrong, being single isn’t all rainbows and unicorns. I’ve had to kiss many frogs and endure a lot of heinous dates with Bumble matches to get where I am now. I also had to endure the special hell of an extended separation. I was ready to sign the divorce papers a year in, but Dan made me wait for two more. It was awful. Also awful? The fact that I’m sure there will be more dates with more frogs in the future. I get lonely and frustrated sometimes. But it’s no accident that my career and my orgasm count took off after my marriage ended.
I land in Asheville just as the sun is setting. The trees that cover the sweep of mountaintops are mostly bare, but the thin winter light coats everything in this pink-purple glow that takes my breath away. The sky here is huge, fading to dark blue at the edges.
It’s epic and sexy, and it’s perfect for the place Hank Beauregard calls home.
An Escalade with Blue Mountain Farm’s insignia is waiting for me on the tarmac (flying private has even more perks than I thought). I’m whisked twenty minutes outside of town to the entrance of the resort. The driver is a cute young guy who fills me in on the things we pass.
