Jennifer Greene - Wild in the Moonlight

At this point in the proceedings, all four women had the face masks on and the conditioner slathered in their hair. Originally she’d served a cooled herbal tea, but Maud Thrumble-typically-had slipped two bottles of wine onto the table before they’d even started.

“God, he’s such a hulk,” Maud said fervently.

“Hunk, not hulk,” Mary Bell corrected her. “Quit trying to be cool when you don’t know the terms. You’re so old you’d probably have called him a dreamboat in your day.”

“Whatever,” Maud said. She and Mary Bell had never gotten along all that well. “He’s to die for. That’s the point. If only I hadn’t been married for fifty years, I’ll tell you, I’d give him a good run for his money.”

The other two women hooted at this news, causing a bowl of lavender-oatmeal goo to spill and Violet to leap up for a rag.

“Aw, Violet, leave it be. We’ll all clean it up when we’re through.”

“It’s all right,” she said.

“No, it’s not.” Sally Williams frowned at her. “You’ve been quiet all afternoon, not like yourself. “What’s wrong?”

“Not a thing. In fact, everything’s hunky-dory. Smooth as silk. Georgy-peachy. Totally copacetic.” In fact, if things got any better, she’d have to smash her head into a door. Edgy as a wet cat, Violet swiped at the spill on the floor, then aimed for the sink. If a woman was going to make a mess, it was her theory that a woman should make a good one. Her entire kitchen looked like a witch’s trash. Clay and porcelain pots of herbs spilled over the counters. Leaves and stems and flowers strewed from the door to the sink. And the pot that mixed the oatmeal and lavender-God knew how she was going to clean it. “What’s not to be happy? It’s a gorgeous day. Life’s good-”

“Enough, already,” Maud said. “It’s that man that’s gotten you down, isn’t it?”

“What man?” She’d never been less depressed, Violet told herself. The last couple weeks had been wonderful. Every day had been sunny. Her Herb Haven business was busier than a swarm of bees. Cameron had taken over the lavender harvest completely, hiring Filbert Green, the local farmer who’d taken care of the land after the parents retired. At this very moment, in fact, there was a crew in the lavender, unseen, unheard, none of whom had bothered her for anything.

Family news had been just as peaceful. Camille had called to wax poetically on the wonders of honeymoons with teenagers. Her mom had called to convey that she and her dad had been going to vacation in Maine and somehow taken a wrong turn; they were headed for New Zealand. And Daisy hadn’t called-which was yet another good thing-because when she connected with her oldest sister the next time, Violet planned to strangle her. Daisy was very good at getting her sisters embroiled with men, but when it came to revealing what she was doing herself, suddenly she took a powder, probably somewhere on the Riviera on a nude beach.

Violet opened the fridge, put the dish rag on the top shelf and closed it. When she turned around, the women were all staring at her.

“What? What?”

“Vi, you’re just not yourself today,” Sally repeated. “Sit down and have some wine, girl.”

“It’s four in the afternoon. If I have wine now, I’ll be curled up on the floor before dinner.”

“Well, something stronger then. How about a little strawberry daiquiri?” From nowhere, Mary Bell lifted a delicate sterling silver flask in the air. Sally promptly zoomed for the cupboard and brought down a glass, then cleared a seat of damp towels so Violet could sit down. “Speaking of alcohol-”

“I didn’t think we were.”

That was ignored. “It looks as if your houseguest is doing something illegal out there. At least in my daddy’s day, we used to call that kind of device a still. He making moonshine on you?”

“No. He’s making lavender oil…or ‘lavender absolute’ as it’s properly called, I guess. It’s kind of hard to explain the process.” She stared at the glass of cherry daiquiri in front of her, then thought what the hell and took a sip. “First you have to pick the flowers when only two thirds of the florets are opened up. Then…well, come to think of it, the distilling process probably does have something in common with a bootlegger’s still. You put water in one container and the flowers in another. You heat the water hot enough to make steam, and then that’s pushed through a pipe under high pressure through the plant material. The steam works to separate or displace the water from the oil. The oil always…”

“Good grief,” Maud said. “You’re going to make our eyes cross. None of us give a holy damn about the still business, dear, we were just trying to get you talking. You haven’t had a man near you since you came home after the divorce, and suddenly you’ve got this gorgeous hulk living with you-”

“Hunk,” Mary Bell corrected.

“Whatever. The point is that your mother isn’t here, but we all know she’d be hoping that you’re taking advantage of the situation.”

Violet gulped down another sip of daiquiri, feeling cornered. Furthermore, her cats had all hunkered on top of the refrigerator, away from the bawdy, noisy drinkers with their increasingly stiff facial masks. “He’s not living with me. He’s just living here. Until the roof for the cottage is done-which was supposed to have been finished a whole month ago. In fact, almost two months ago now. I can’t make Bartholomew show up regularly for work to save my life.”

“That’s roofers, dear. I should know. I was married to one for twelve years. He only showed up on time for dinner twice, God rest his soul.” Anne Blayton almost never spoke up, but she’d finished two glasses of wine now. Her mask was starting to crack like old parchment. “He sure was good between the sheets, though.”

“Well, you’ve been through enough husbands, you should be a judge,” Mary Bell said sweetly.

“The point,” Maud said, “is not whether he’s sleeping here or in the cottage, but where he’s not sleeping when the lights go out. Are you deaf and blind, Violet Campbell? Last week, with that ghastly heat wave, I swear the only redeeming part of my day was to drive past here and see him walking in the yard, at least half the time without a shirt. Whooee.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Violet reached forward to pour a little wine into her now-empty glass.

“Violet, honey, you just added wine to your daiquiri,” Mary Bell said kindly. “You’re just not yourself.”

“I am too myself.”

The back door opened again. Cameron ambled in. “Hi, ladies. Looks like you’re having fun.” He deposited an empty can in the trash, smiled at the group, stroked three cats and ambled through to the other room.

Four women let out another collective sigh. All of them were smiling hard enough to crack their masks. “It’s time we washed you all off,” Violet said firmly.

That was at least three times he’d walked in this afternoon. Three times, when he’d laughed and joked with the women. It wasn’t that long ago that he would have had a cow and a half over an estrogen-loaded event like this. He didn’t run anymore. He didn’t act terrified-or even surprised-if he wandered into the kitchen and found a roomful of masked women with their bare feet in buckets, sitting in bathrobes in the middle of the afternoon.

It just wasn’t natural. He was beyond being the ideal guy-helping her with everything from dishes to chores, making the whole lavender thing look effortless, doing his own wash, never taking over the remote, bringing groceries in. He’d quit trying to finish the roof, but that was only because he’d completely run out of spare time. Normal men only helped out if they were harassed, blackmailed or wanted sex. Everybody knew that. Cameron seemed to think it was ordinary behavior to pitch in. More confusing yet, he took every damn thing in her life in stride, as if it were all very interesting, instead of the nature of stuff that should have given an alpha guy like him nightmares.