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Chapter Three
Meghan
There are fourteen of us in Irma Daniels’ living room sipping wine or lemonade and discussing the latest John Greer book on a Thursday night. My attention isn’t one hundred percent there, especially after Grandma’s comment about reading smutty books. What would happen if my next pick was something a bit racier? Would they freak out if I suggested E L James or Sylvia Day? At twenty-eight, I’m the youngest woman in the room.
By a good twenty years.
I haven’t even reached my prime yet. Hell, most of these women have been married for as long as I’ve been alive. You’d think they’d be all about reading a few kinky words to spice up their marriage.
Married book clubbers outweigh the non-married ones. With nine wearing a ring on their finger, only three are singles, two of which are widows. I consider myself a widow, even though Josh and I were never married. We had plans though, and a diamond on my finger, so I believe that puts me in the same class as Cindy Jones, the nice woman whose husband died a few years ago from a heart attack.
After we discuss the book, which I barely participated in, everyone congregates to the dining room, where the appetizers and desserts we all brought are laid out. I pile some crab dip and cream cheese bars on my plate and head over to the corner of the room. Everyone is discussing the newest coffee shop to open uptown, anxious to find out all of the gossip on the young family who recently relocated to Jupiter Bay and opened the business.
“Hey, you’ve been quiet tonight,” Cindy says as she comes over to sit beside me along the back wall.
“Yeah, sorry. I’ve been a little sidetracked tonight.”
“No worries here. I had a hard time getting into the book myself, which is why I didn’t have much to say. Sometimes, I just don’t want those gut-clenching, tear-jerking stories that make me bawl my eyes out from start to finish. Sometimes, I just want to read something that will make me laugh until I cry.”
Yes. This.
Exactly.
“No, I totally get it,” I tell her with a smile.
“Personally,” she starts, bending down and whispering so only I can hear, “I’d love to read something a bit…dirtier.”
I glance her way, a wicked little glimmer lighting her blue eyes. “Me too.”
Cindy laughs and holds up her hand for a high-five. “It’s settled. Next time it’s yours or my pick, we’re totally choosing smut.”
Laughing, I turn my body so that our knees are a bit closer. “Deal.”
We both continue to eat our food, watching the speculation and conversations of the other attendees around the table. Someone actually just suggested that the young couple moved to Jupiter Bay because the husband has an illegitimate kid with one of the young single women in town.
Clearly, they read too much fiction.
“How’s your dad?” Cindy asks casually.
But my radar perks up.
“He’s fine,” I answer, looking her way and watching her body language. She’s completely relaxed. Casual. Nothing that says she’s being nosy, or worse, looking for a date.
Not that dating my dad would be bad. Actually, it would be the complete opposite, and the more I think about it, Cindy would be a great woman for him to date. But am I ready to see my dad date?
I come to my answer immediately, and realize I mean it a thousand percent.
Yes.
As far as I know, Dad hasn’t dated since Mom passed away. It’s been years – more than sixteen years, actually – and I’ve never seen him so much as glance toward another woman.
That thought truly makes me a little sad. Even though I completely understand it – the prospect of dating again makes me a little queasy – I don’t want that for the patriarch of our family. I want him happy, smiling, and if love is in the cards for him again, I want that too, and I believe my sisters would all feel the same way.
“Can I ask you something?” My voice is quiet as I glance around the room to see if anyone is paying us any attention.
“Of course,” Cindy replies, giving me her full attention.
Before I can chicken out, I ask, “Would you be interested in getting coffee sometime Saturday? I have plans later that night, but I’d love to, maybe, talk to you again. More privately.” It’s as if she knows what I’m getting at. Hell, do I even know what I’m getting at? All I know is that I enjoy chatting with this woman the few times we’ve spoken during book club, and maybe, just maybe, it would be nice to talk to someone who has been where I am.
