Missing Pieces Read Free Page B

I lapsed back into silence, debated whether to have another cup of coffee, decided against it. Three cups was more than enough, although I do love my morning coffee—my only real vice, I used to say.
    I thought of Larry, out on the golf course since before 8 A.M. with prospective clients. Larry was relatively new to golf. He’d played a bit in college, was actually quite good at it, he confided, but gave it up for lack of time and money. Now that he had substantially more of both, and clients and business acquaintances were always inviting him out for a round, he’d taken it up again, although he wasn’t finding it quite as relaxing as he remembered. The night before, he’d spent almost an hour practicing in front of the full-length bathroom mirror, trying to recapture the effortless swing of his youth. “Almost there,” he kept repeating, as I grew tired of waiting for him to come to bed, and allowed myself to drift off to sleep, vague stirrings of frustration teasing at my groin.
    He’d already left by the time I woke up. I got out of bed, threw on a short pink cotton robe, ambled into the kitchen, made a large pot of coffee, and sat down with the newspaper that Larry had been thoughtful enough to bring inside before heading out. The girls were still asleep. Michelle had been out with her girlfriends till after midnight. I didn’t even hear Sara come home.
    I was reading the movie reviews and enjoying my second cup of coffee when Jo Lynn showed up. She was in a lousy mood, she announced in lieu of hello, partly because she hadn’t slept very well, but mostly because she’d been stood up the night before. Apparently her date, a former football player turned sporting goods salesman, who she said looked like a weathered Brad Pitt, had begged off at the last minute, claiming a sore throat and achy limbs. So she’d gone to a bar and who should show up, lookinghealthy as a horse? Well, you know the rest, she told me, pouring herself a cup of coffee, settling in.
    So there she was, in white shorts and revealing halter top, looking gorgeous as usual, despite her sleepless night, her shoulder-length blond curls gloriously askew—the freshly fucked look, she called it, although she hadn’t been, she groused. That makes two of us, I almost confided, but didn’t. I could never bring myself to discuss my sex life with Jo Lynn, partly because I didn’t trust her to be discreet, mostly because there was nothing much to tell. I’d been in a monogamous relationship for almost a quarter of a century. To Jo Lynn, monogamy equaled monotony. I’d given up trying to change her mind. Lately, my words sounded hollow, even to me.
    Jo Lynn, on the other hand, was always more than willing, eager even, to share the secrets of her love life with me. Details of her escapades flowed from her lips as briskly as water from a mountain stream. I tried to tell her that her love life was nobody’s business but her own, but this was a concept she clearly didn’t understand. I tried to remind her that discretion was the better part of valor; she looked at me as if I were crazy. I tried to warn her against disease; she scowled and looked away. I told her I really wasn’t interested; she laughed loud and long. “Of course you’re interested,” she’d say, and of course she was right. “Just don’t talk about it in front of the girls,” I’d plead, to no avail. Jo Lynn loved an audience. She relished the effect she had on my daughters, who openly worshipped her, especially Sara. Sometimes they’d gang up on me, laugh at my so-called conservative ways, talk about dragging me onto one of those dreadful daytime talk shows they sometimes watched. “Girl, you need a makeover!” Jo Lynn would shout in the hyperextended voice of Rolonda or Ricki Lake, while Sara doubled over with laughter.
    “He’s cute,” Jo Lynn was muttering now, her face buriedso deep behind the morning paper that I wasn’t sure I’d heard her say anything at