Read Online Friday Mornings at Nine by Marilyn Brant - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marilyn Brant
Tags: Fiction, Contemporary Women
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trees blocked her view, so she couldn’t tell who’d won the race. Didn’t matter, though. The girls—nay, the women —loved each other. And she adored this about them.
Jennifer paused and listened to the inebriating silence within the house, punctuated only by the hypnotic ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer and the clackity-click of the lilac branches tapping a coded message against the family room window.
She released a long, slow breath. Alone at last.
She ambled down the hall to her PC and, finally, finally, was able to flip it on for the day.
Beep.
The whirl of her computer coming to life made her feel like a gambling addict facing a favorite casino machine. Who knew what she’d find in her Inbox today? A single message? A strike out? Or a lucky streak of three in a row? She wouldn’t know until she typed in her password and checked her Yahoo! account.
Nine messages.
One for a Viagra-like product. Two for cheap Rolex replicas. A few for oil-change offers and restaurant coupons…Oooh, 20 percent off her total bill at the Happy Szechwan. And one—just one—from David.
She clicked on that first.
He wrote:
Damn. We have a morning meeting scheduled with the IT squad. Might run late. Can we IM at 10:14 instead?
She suppressed a smile and found herself scrolling to the bottom of the page, trying to keep from reading their correspondence in reverse. She wanted to review her e-mail history with David from the beginning, which had become an odd preoccupation for her, like a new OCD acquired and made instantaneously habitual.
His first message had been sent on August 13.
Subject: CPU Reunion!
Jenn—it’s been a while. Bet you didn’t expect to get a message from me, huh? Got your e-mail address from the alumni office, along with all 26 members of the CPU Club during our four years in college. You remember Mitch, right? He and I are planning a reunion for the weekend of November 13 and wanted to let everyone know. More details to follow, but I hope you can come.
David Saxon
CPU Club President
Like she wouldn’t remember who he was or that he’d been their president. And, of course, there was the matter of their club’s name, which university administrators always assumed meant “Central Processing Unit”—the brains of the computer or, in this case, the campus.
Anyone who knew David, however, knew it wouldn’t mean something that obvious. With David, hidden messages were expected. And if they weren’t mathematical in origin, they were sexual.
She’d worked up the nerve to respond three days later:
Hi, David,
It WAS a surprise to get your e-mail. A reunion sounds fun. I’ll tentatively put the date on my calendar. Are spouses and children invited, or is it a party just for club members?
Jenn
And, yes, she signed “Jenn” not “Jennifer” because with him—and only with him—she used that nickname. It always made her feel like a different person. “Jenn” was the focused, sharply observant, almost confident college girl—quietly energized by possibilities. “Jennifer” was the mousy, retiring, vaguely bored married woman she’d morphed into—silently dissatisfied by routine.
Within forty-eight hours, David had shot a reply back:
I heard you were married. Any kids? I’ve been with Marcia (an old friend of my sister’s, maybe you remember her?) for 11 years now, married for 9. Our boys are 2 and 6.
As for the party, it was supposed to be alumni only—members from years 1–4. But I’ll check with Mitch and see if he’s interested in changing that.
Of course he had to mention his sister. Ugh. So, Sandra had finally matched him up with Little Miss Betty Crocker after all. Well, good for them. Jennifer hoped he still liked pecan pie. She wasn’t convinced Marcia could cook anything else.
She tried to wait it out, but she didn’t hear back from him about Mitch’s opinion. Since David had asked her specific questions, she finally
Jennifer paused and listened to the inebriating silence within the house, punctuated only by the hypnotic ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer and the clackity-click of the lilac branches tapping a coded message against the family room window.
She released a long, slow breath. Alone at last.
She ambled down the hall to her PC and, finally, finally, was able to flip it on for the day.
Beep.
The whirl of her computer coming to life made her feel like a gambling addict facing a favorite casino machine. Who knew what she’d find in her Inbox today? A single message? A strike out? Or a lucky streak of three in a row? She wouldn’t know until she typed in her password and checked her Yahoo! account.
Nine messages.
One for a Viagra-like product. Two for cheap Rolex replicas. A few for oil-change offers and restaurant coupons…Oooh, 20 percent off her total bill at the Happy Szechwan. And one—just one—from David.
She clicked on that first.
He wrote:
Damn. We have a morning meeting scheduled with the IT squad. Might run late. Can we IM at 10:14 instead?
She suppressed a smile and found herself scrolling to the bottom of the page, trying to keep from reading their correspondence in reverse. She wanted to review her e-mail history with David from the beginning, which had become an odd preoccupation for her, like a new OCD acquired and made instantaneously habitual.
His first message had been sent on August 13.
Subject: CPU Reunion!
Jenn—it’s been a while. Bet you didn’t expect to get a message from me, huh? Got your e-mail address from the alumni office, along with all 26 members of the CPU Club during our four years in college. You remember Mitch, right? He and I are planning a reunion for the weekend of November 13 and wanted to let everyone know. More details to follow, but I hope you can come.
David Saxon
CPU Club President
Like she wouldn’t remember who he was or that he’d been their president. And, of course, there was the matter of their club’s name, which university administrators always assumed meant “Central Processing Unit”—the brains of the computer or, in this case, the campus.
Anyone who knew David, however, knew it wouldn’t mean something that obvious. With David, hidden messages were expected. And if they weren’t mathematical in origin, they were sexual.
She’d worked up the nerve to respond three days later:
Hi, David,
It WAS a surprise to get your e-mail. A reunion sounds fun. I’ll tentatively put the date on my calendar. Are spouses and children invited, or is it a party just for club members?
Jenn
And, yes, she signed “Jenn” not “Jennifer” because with him—and only with him—she used that nickname. It always made her feel like a different person. “Jenn” was the focused, sharply observant, almost confident college girl—quietly energized by possibilities. “Jennifer” was the mousy, retiring, vaguely bored married woman she’d morphed into—silently dissatisfied by routine.
Within forty-eight hours, David had shot a reply back:
I heard you were married. Any kids? I’ve been with Marcia (an old friend of my sister’s, maybe you remember her?) for 11 years now, married for 9. Our boys are 2 and 6.
As for the party, it was supposed to be alumni only—members from years 1–4. But I’ll check with Mitch and see if he’s interested in changing that.
Of course he had to mention his sister. Ugh. So, Sandra had finally matched him up with Little Miss Betty Crocker after all. Well, good for them. Jennifer hoped he still liked pecan pie. She wasn’t convinced Marcia could cook anything else.
She tried to wait it out, but she didn’t hear back from him about Mitch’s opinion. Since David had asked her specific questions, she finally
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