Hector got a surprise promotion. Now he was a security shift boss at one of the airportâs terminals. Mama was proud; Hector even had people working under him.
That thought made Rafe smile. One of those people working for Hector was a beautiful Afro-Latina and this evening, for dinner, Rafe planned to show her the most romantic time. He looked at his watch again.
It was 6:45 a.m.
At that moment, on the Upper West Side, Patsy Gorman was making her regular breakfast specialty, French toast that somehow burned at the edges while remaining sullenly liquid in the center. Paul Gorman ate it without complaint every morning, but that did not mean he had surrendered and fled the scene of battle.
âHey, Patsy,â Gorman called from the bathroom where he was dragging a brush through his vibrant crop of thick, dark hair. âIâve been thinking.â
âShould I alert the media?â she called back.
âVery funny,â he said as he walked through the kitchen doorway. âNo, hereâs what I was thinking. Instead of the cleaning lady coming in twice a week to help straighten the apartment, why donât you have her come in every morning just to cook breakfast, seven days a week? And you do your own cleaning?â
Gorman wandered to his chair at the head of the table in floppy slippers and the silk bathrobe Patsy gave him for Christmas their first year together. Patsy, at the electric range, was wearing light blue silk pajamas that were loose fitting but that, somehow, she still made seem incredibly erotic.
She turned to him and smiled. âDo my own cleaning? And perhaps break a fingernail?â
âSome have survived it,â Gorman said.
âThereâs more to life than survival.â She walked behind his chair and draped her arms over his hulking shoulders, gently rubbed his chest, then rested her head on his. Nearing forty, Patsy Gorman was twenty years younger than her husband but she still had the face and figure of a teenager. A teenager who has become the kind of beautiful a woman becomes when she has known love all her life, does not need to watch her diet, and has retained her natural auburn hair color without resorting to dyes. Her voice in his ear was breathy and warm.
âSuppose one evening I am giving you your usual full body massage. And suppose further that I have roused you to a code orange state of maximum readiness and I am now ready to lower my pulpy, whorish carmine lips to your body and awwwwk! What ho! Smelling strangeness! You see a broken fingernail and the magic vanishes in an instant flare of revulsion. And suppose in that instant you realize I am not this wonderfully desirable love bunny you thought I was but a tired old house frau, with nails broken from scrubbing the baseboards. Varicose veins ready to bulge through my skin at a momentâs notice. Saggy ugly orangutan arms. Anna Magnani without hormones. Oh, what a sight.â
âIâd be willing to chance it,â he said.
She darted her tongue into his right ear. âReally?â she whispered. He covered her hands on his chest with his own hands.
âGod, you are a savage,â he said.
âYes.â She tongued his ear again. âYes, yes, yes. Molly Bloom without morals. Yes I said, yes I will, yes, yes, yes.â
âScrew the cleaning lady. Bring on the French toast. Iâll eat it off your belly.â
âSyrup?â
âWhipped cream, elderberry jam and oyster-essence ice cream.â
âNow youâre catching on.â She slipped her hands out from under his and padded back toward the electric range.
âOoops, I wouldnât want to burn it.â
âHow would anyone know?â
âI would know. Great chefs always know when they have missed the mark, no matter by how little.â
She used a Teflon-coated pancake turner to flip the French toast, put her hands on her hips and stared down into the griddle. âHow can you eat