“That is true,” I agree. It’s our town’s greatest gift and greatest mystery. We are blessed by a fertility goddess, only she seems a helluva lot more fond of girl babies than of boys.
No one quite understands the Athena phenomenon, but we all understand the effects. Duck Falls counts more female-owned businesses than most towns, more women than most towns, and more women in need of a man-bang than most towns.
Might as well call it Fuck Falls.
There you have it—the reason that new men in town, be they passersby or residents, receive such avid interest.
Or crazed, horny, give-it-to-me-now interest, I suppose.
Betty continues her man-quisition. “Have you seen him yet? Can you verify if it’s true?”
“His biteable tush? That would be nice to know, but I haven’t seen it.”
“So you haven’t met your new neighbor? Are you sure? As in absolutely positive?” The skepticism is strong in this one.
“Scout’s honor.” I hold up two fingers, then I tap my daughter’s hands, signaling that she can remove the earmuffs.
“I heard every word,” she says dryly, and turns to our neighbor. “Do you want me to text you an update on the olive scale later?”
Betty stares at my kid like she’s given her the secret to having a flat belly while eating cake daily. “Yes. Would you do that?” she asks, glomming on to this idea.
I clamp a hand onto Wednesday’s shoulder. “She won’t be issuing olive-scale reports.”
“But maybe consider it,” says Betty. “And maybe let me know before you tell the others? I want to line up Missy before anyone else can grab the olive.” She mimes squeezing melons with her hands.
“I’ve always got my eyes open for Missy. She’s a hoot, and one of my favorite board game partners.”
“And we’ll make sure no one else gets the olive but Missy,” Wednesday cuts in. I dig my claws into her shoulder, letting her know she’s in big trouble now for egging Betty on.
“We—” I begin to express how much that’s not going to happen, but Wednesday interjects again.
“Maybe we can discuss it when my mom fixes those spice racks for you?”
Ohhhhhh.
Oh, yes. I see now.
My child is an evil genius.
“They’re still not closing properly, right?” Wednesday asks, tilting her head with innocent curiosity as she closes the deal.
Betty seems to like this win-win idea too. Her smile spreads. “They aren’t. So frustrating.” Turning to me, she asks, “Can you fix my spice rack later? And there’s no need for another on-the-house job. I’ll pay you.”
“Sure. I have some time this afternoon to work on it.”
“Great. I’ll bake a coffee cake, and we can catch up while you work.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say.
“Olives and coffee cake,” Wednesday adds.
“Spice racks and coffee cake,” I correct.
“Everything and coffee cake,” Betty says.
As we leave, my neighbor picks up her hose and resumes drowning the flowers as she scouts down the street.
Once we’re a few houses away, Wednesday clears her throat. “You think she considered that the guy in the rental car might be, oh, gee, someone just passing through?”
I laugh in agreement. “That is exactly what I was wondering.”
“Also, who needs a man that badly?”
I hold up my hand. “Preach, sister.”
She smacks my palm then downs more of her beverage. “I like boys too, but I don’t get the man-session this town has. Who cares if the neighbor is a hottie or a nottie? There are plenty of other things to do besides date.”
“Exactly. I have taught you well.”
After more than a decade with a man who didn’t love me, I am a happy camper to be single at last.
Single and not in need of a date.
Not in want of a man.
Single and truly single.
No men need apply. Not for anything.
I’ve been teaching my girl the same thing—that you don’t need another person to complete you. You are enough.
I believe that with my whole heart.
At the teal mailbox painted with ladybugs—an adorable addition courtesy of my best friend, Alva—we turn onto the stone walkway leading to our porch.
In spite of myself, my eyes swing one house over.
A red sedan is parked in the driveway.
Hmm. Perhaps Betty is Miss Marple after all.
And call me Agatha Christie, because I spy with my little eye a moving truck and a couple of burly men in blue dockers lugging a black leather couch up the steps.
There’s no sign of the owner though.
“We’ll pop over later and introduce ourselves. See if they need anything,” I say as I climb the porch steps.
A door creaks, and a voice rumbles across the yard. “Yes, this is a little quieter than New York City. But I have a hunch it’s going to be absolutely fantastic.”
I stop in my tracks.
That voice.
He sounds like an English hottie, like Tom Hardy, Daniel Craig, or Henry Cavill.
What are the chances though? That the face will match that kind of a voice?
