heard telling a neighbor about “those damn squirrels” that steal our bird food. Nowadays I curb the cursing and find cleaner-but-similar words to replace the “dirtier” variety.
Back to the coffee spill—now I had a coffee stain to clean, as well. It was either that, or hide the rug. Burn it, maybe. Mama Marr would take one look at that thing, shake her head, and say: “Oy, Barb-ara. You don’t know how to take a stain out?” Then she’d tsk and mutter, “I don’t know what they teach these girls in school no more.”
I pulled the door fully open to see who had caused me this grief.
“Hey, there!” my friend, Colt said, as he stood all smiles on my front porch in his sporty shorts and Life is Good t-shirt. Colt Baron was one of those men who definitely aged with grace. When I met him in college he was a blond, trim, and muscular surfer boy. Today, he was still blond, trim and muscular, but he was all man. Little lines that grow around the eyes might make a woman look old, but on Colt they were like butter cream frosting—the proverbial icing on the cake. Whereas Howard had a significant amount of gray, Colt had just a touch that blended in nicely with his feathery blond wisps of hair.
And he looked way too chipper for my current mood.
I scowled. “You made me spill coffee and Mama Marr is coming! I don’t have time for a coffee stain.”
His smile fell. I immediately felt two feet high after noticing that he wasn’t alone. He had a friend with him. A pretty female friend. A pretty, female, brunette, way-younger-than-me friend. “I’m sorry,” I said. “My mother-in-law is coming this afternoon, my house is a wreck—by her standards at least—and last night a famous movie director threw up all over me and then croaked, so my stress meter is in the red-zone right now.” I cleared my throat. “You know how it is.”
The pretty thing hanging onto Colt’s arm tightened her grip as her eyes widened.
Colt’s smile returned. “Up to your old tricks, huh, Barb?”
Barb?
Did Colt just call me Barb? My something-is-wrong-here radar detected a disturbance in The Force.
He continued. “Barb, this is Meegan.”
I was still reeling from the fact that he was calling me Barb instead of Curly. The fun and fancy-free Colt Baron had called me “Curly” from the first day we met over twenty-five years ago. Etiquette told me to offer my hand to Meegan for a shake. The green-eyed monster told me I should slap her alabaster, taut, wrinkle-free face and ask her what she’d done with the Colt who still carried a torch for me and called me cute little pet names. “Um,” I stuttered. “Where are my manners? Come in.” I motioned them into the house. “Nice to meet you, Meg.”
Neither of them moved, but pretty-young-thing grimaced and shook her head. “Meegan,” she corrected me in a pretentiously timid tone.
“Oh, I’m sorry—Meghan.”
Her grimace deepened. “Mee,” she said, as if talking to a three year old. “Mee-gan.”
That slap was feeling pretty necessary, but I fought it off. “Meeeeee-gan,” I said with a hint of over-emphasis (okay, more than a hint). “Come on in.”
Colt cleared his throat. “We can’t come in,” he said. “We just stopped by to get my kayak out of your garage. We’re going to hit Aquia Creek today.”
Meegan giggled. She was just too darned adorable with her sweet, short hair and her ready-for-adventure ensemble. I wondered at her age. Her boobs were way too perky for her to be over thirty. Colt was forty-six. Who did he think he was? Hugh Hefner? “Okay,” I said. “Have . . . fun. I guess.”
Howard joined me at the door. He did that macho man-nod to Colt, and then smiled when he saw Meegan. I felt a strong urge to elbow him in the gut or possibly withhold sex for a week. This girl was making me feel very violent.
“Dude,” Colt said, acknowledging Howard’s nod. “We’re just getting my kayak out of your garage. We’ll be out of the way in a minute.”
“Sure,” Howard said. “You need help?”
Colt shook his head. “We’ve got it, thanks.” Colt stored his kayak, a tent, and a couple of other items in our garage and he knew the code to the opener, so he really had no need to let us know at all except good manners. Or maybe to show off his nauseatingly nubile companion. He winked at me and rubbed