Diamonds and Lace
an excerpt

“Mom? It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“I'm sorry I woke you. I thought a cup of tea might help me sleep.” Pam carefully took the cup of hot water out of the microwave and slipped in the tea bag.

“I shouldn't have upset you, and I'm sorry, but you need to go back to bed.”

Pam dunked the tea bag a couple of times, hoping to hurry the steeping process. Their little talk about her moving and going to the game by herself hadn't awakened her from a fitful sleep. Her dead husband making love to her had.

He had been gone for sixteen years now, and she still dreamed of him running his hands over her body, kissing her just behind the ear. Sometimes in the dream he would snuggle himself between her legs and make love to her slowly and gently. Other times, it was a wild furious ride, like tonight.

But she could hardly tell her daughter that. Pam added two spoonsful of sugar and stirred. After all, she was pushing eighty. Old ladies shouldn't be dreaming about hot sweaty sex.

“I'll go back to bed after I finish my tea,” Pam said, gently blowing across the surface of the steaming liquid. She sipped cautiously.

“Do you want me to sit up with you a while?”

“No. I'm going to knit for a bit. But thank you for offering.”

Pam wished her oldest would've just stayed at her own home and taken care of her husband and kids. Flying down here to talk her into going to an assisted living facility, Pam hoped she was feeling a twinge of guilt. Pam hadn't even considered moving in with any of her kids; she was still healthy. Besides, all her kids lived either too far away or in too cold a climate. And her friends were here. She had her knitting group, and the ladies of the neighborhood got together once a month.

She'd given up her driver’s license before the law had demanded it; but it hadn't slowed her down. She had friends who took her to the store, to church, to the doctor. She had her pension and Social Security checks deposited automatically, and she did all of her banking on line. She used the mail order pharmacy, so her medicine was delivered right to her door. And she had enough money to pay for a cab if she had to.

Pam shuffled slowly into the family room, and told her daughter good night, again, as she placed the cup on the end table. Then, she gently lowered herself into the lounger and pushed the remote to raise the footrest. Such a nice invention. So much easier than those stupid levers and then trying to arch into a backbend to get the head of the chair to recline.

Pam thought, it wasn't as if she was totally helpless. So her house wasn’t as clean as it use to be, but it wasn't filthy either. And so what if she didn't cook much anymore; she'd lost her appetite along with her sense of taste, but she wasn't a walking skeleton like her friend’s granddaughter who had anorexia. And Pam didn't need help getting in an out of the bathtub; before Alan had died, he'd taken out the tub and replaced it with a huge shower that had a bench to sit on.

So what could an assisted living facility do for her? Nothing—except eat through her retirement fund like a teenager with a bag of potato chips. She didn't want to think about it.

Her daughter would find her asleep in the lounger in a couple of hours. Pam couldn't seem to explain it. Even buying a new bed had not chased away the dreams or cured the longing for her husband. She missed spooning and snuggling against his warm body. His arms curling around her; his hand cupping her breast. The bed, any bed, was haunted by him, but the lounger was just a comfortable chair. In it she could sleep.

Pam reached for the afghan that was nearing completion; it was a graduation present for her youngest grandson. He was going off to college in a year, and she felt obligated to make him a school color afghan as she had for all of the grandkids. She just wished one of them had gone to a different college; she was getting tired of the same crimson and cream colors year after year. Even varying the stitch pattern had not helped.

Her hand caressed the soft yarn, then patted the work in progress back onto the growing pile of unfinished projects in her basket and picked up the book instead. Knitting was almost automatic and let her think; reading would stop the flood of memories. At least she still had her memories. Thank God, she'd been spared the indignity of Alzheimer’s, unlike her own mother.

Pam opened the book, a pink terry cloth pig cheerfully marking the page. Her choice of reading material had changed through the years—from novels of World War II battles, to outerspace sagas, to hardcore science fiction, to fantasy, to romance, to horror, to mystery. Now it was autobiographies and memoirs. And she wasn’t picky. Alan Alda, Jimmy Carter, Jane Pauley, Joe Torre, and more—she had been fancinated by them all. Some were sad; others were funny; a few were disappointing, but most were inciteful.

She used the magnifying ruler to keep track of her place. The clock—a reward for her husband’s twenty-fifth year of service to the company—ticked a comforting rhythm. The air conditioner cycled off, and the compresser on the refrigerater clanked on. She turned the page and the book sagged into her lap as her eyelids drooped and finally closed.

* * *
Dalton tossed and turned. It didn't matter what position he tried, he was just too keyed up to sleep. Even his wife, who normally slept like a marble statue, was restless. He finally gave up and rolled toward his wife, scooting next to her and hugging her against his chest. He felt her sigh as he tucked his hand under her breast.

This was the part he regretted. He could've had twenty full years of spooning; but baseball had kept him gone for the better part of each year. He rested his head next to Honey’s shoulder and got a wiff of her hair. It smelled fruity; he sniffed again and decided it was a melon of some kind. Or maybe a cucumber. She shifted when he accidentally bumped her ear with his nose. His body was definitely glad to be home. When she squeezed his arm, he wiggled closer.

“Go back to sleep.” Her voice was husky with sleep.

“I can’t. I'm up,” Dalton said, poking her in the lower back.

“Trying to make up for lost time?”

“No. But I plan to take full advantage of every chance I get from now on.” He kissed her neck and he felt a shiver work its way down to her toes.

“What time is it?” she murmured.

“Who cares?”

“You will when your daughter jumps in the middle of your back for a pony ride.”

He rolled over and fumbled for the clock. “Almost seven.”

“Then you better lock the door—“

Fifty pounds of arms and legs jumped onto the bed, and he barely had time to protect his assets from his little darling's bony knee as she wormed her way between him and his wife. “Daddy! Are you going to make pancakes this morning?”

“Ugh. Hold still.” He fought her fine curly mop out of his face. “I don't know if Mommy has the right stuff to make pancakes, darling.”

“How about if you go watch cartoons for a while, and let me and Daddy sleep a little longer?”

“But, I'm hungry now.” His little darling gave him a big sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Your face is stickery. Pleeeeze? Pancakes, pretty please?”

He was definitely going to have to find another job—and soon—or his little darling would have him wrapped around her pinky inside of a week. Did mothers actually teach their daughters how to manipulate their fathers, or was it instinctive?

He had always gotten a slap on the side of head from his dad for doing the exact same thing his younger sister got a smile for. Of course, he could sweet-talk his mother into extra cookies, or extension on bedtimes while his sister couldn't make her budge.

“You go watch cartoons, while I hop in the shower and get rid of the stickers. Then, I’ll make you pancakes.”

She jumped off the bed and ran toward the door. Then she turned and put her hands on her six year old hips. “You are not going to lock the door are you?”

“What difference does it make?” Dalton asked.

“Cause every time you lock the door, it takes forever before breakfast is ready.”

His wife pulled the sheets up over her head. The bed shook, and he was sure he heard a muffled snort. “I'll hurry, sweetheart.” And he smiled at his darling daughter until she left the room.

Then he addressed the hysterical lump under the covers. “What are you laughing at? I told her I would make it quick!”

“Sure you want to expend that much energy? Your game might suffer.” She lowered the sheets to just below her chin, batted her eyelashes and smiled wickedly.

“At this point in time, I'm not too worried about getting suspended or fined or warming the bench. Or getting traded or losing my position. Go lock the door.”

She crawled out from under the covers, flashing her bare butt at him as she crossed the room. And he thought her ass still looked pretty damn good after twenty years and four kids. And as she siddled back to the bed, slowly lifting the shorty nightgown and pulling it over her head, he thought he might just enjoy a nice long hiatus before starting the next phase of his life.