Read Online My Very Best Friend by Cathy Lamb - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cathy Lamb
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everyone expects the writer to have a rollicking love life. Panting under the sheets, sexual gymnastics, creative lovers. A change in lovers now and then when you get bored, bad-boy attraction without giving up your power, maybe tattoos, dark hair and smoldering eyes. Blah blah blah.
I know many romance writers—not that I’ve met many, because I don’t go to conferences and conventions and that sort of silliness, but we do write and call—and that image is rarely true. In fact, I don’t know anyone who has a man toy. Some of the romance writers I correspond with have been married twenty, thirty, even fifty years to the same man. Most of them write their romance novels in pajamas, ponytail on their head, door shut to the outside world.
One will eat only even numbers of food at a time when she’s on a deadline. Forty-two spaghetti noodles, four pieces of bacon, two bowls of oatmeal. Another picks at her left eyebrow until it’s gone. A third dresses up like her characters to get into their heads.
Disappointing to hear of their peculiarities, but it is the unvarnished truth.
I won’t toss off my skirts, high-riser underwear, and comfortable shoes for any man. I’m not buying into that free sex thing. What is free about it? What if his condom slipped off? What if he had a disease? What if I got pregnant? I don’t want him to spend the night, and I don’t want to spend the night at his house, either.
What if he wanted to stay for breakfast? What if he wanted to stay for lunch and dinner? What if he wanted to stay, in general, as in, every day?
I don’t want a man hanging around every day. I need my privacy. I need to be alone. I don’t need his opinion or his thoughts about my life. I don’t want to change, nor will I, to accommodate him. Men don’t live up to expectations. I know that from my Unfortunate Marriage.
I shouldn’t lump all men together, like weeds invading a rose garden, or a comet heading toward Earth.
But, generally, for excitement, women should study the Hubble Space Telescope and the technology there. What else is out there in our galaxy and beyond? Now, that is thrilling.
But Toran would be thrilling, too.
I thought about him naked.
Oh yes. He would be even better than the Hubble Space Telescope.
4
“I found these before I had our old house demolished.”
Toran handed me a battered cardboard box after we had fish and chips and white wine on his deck for dinner.
His view was peaceful, panoramic. The ocean spread out in the distance like a blue-black blanket with frothy lace on the ends.
“What’s in it?” I fiddled with the top button of my beige blouse. After I had showered, I had paired it with my dark brown skirt and a brown sweater with a blue, smiling whale on the left shoulder.
“Open it, but be prepared, Charlotte.”
I studied his face. He had a hard jaw and lines fanning out from his eyes. He was the kind of man who would get even more deadly handsome as he aged. “Okay. I’ll be prepared.”
Inside the box there was a stack of letters tied with straw. My name was written on the outside of each envelope.
Charlotte
Queen Charlotte
Charlotte Mackintosh
My friend, Char
Charlotty
My hands shook as I took them out. “What?” My voice was stricken. “What are these?” But I knew. I knew what they were.
“These are letters that Bridget wrote to you. She obviously never sent them. She didn’t want to tell you the truth. It was therapy for her. It was like writing to her diary, only she wrote them to you, her best friend, as she did when she was a child. I think she wanted the truth of her life written down, and that’s why she brought these letters home and placed them in the box.
“I read some, I hope you don’t mind. I was trying to find her, find out the truth of what happened. My parents weren’t honest with me at the time. They lied about where she was and why. Then they refused to talk about her at all.” He paused,
I know many romance writers—not that I’ve met many, because I don’t go to conferences and conventions and that sort of silliness, but we do write and call—and that image is rarely true. In fact, I don’t know anyone who has a man toy. Some of the romance writers I correspond with have been married twenty, thirty, even fifty years to the same man. Most of them write their romance novels in pajamas, ponytail on their head, door shut to the outside world.
One will eat only even numbers of food at a time when she’s on a deadline. Forty-two spaghetti noodles, four pieces of bacon, two bowls of oatmeal. Another picks at her left eyebrow until it’s gone. A third dresses up like her characters to get into their heads.
Disappointing to hear of their peculiarities, but it is the unvarnished truth.
I won’t toss off my skirts, high-riser underwear, and comfortable shoes for any man. I’m not buying into that free sex thing. What is free about it? What if his condom slipped off? What if he had a disease? What if I got pregnant? I don’t want him to spend the night, and I don’t want to spend the night at his house, either.
What if he wanted to stay for breakfast? What if he wanted to stay for lunch and dinner? What if he wanted to stay, in general, as in, every day?
I don’t want a man hanging around every day. I need my privacy. I need to be alone. I don’t need his opinion or his thoughts about my life. I don’t want to change, nor will I, to accommodate him. Men don’t live up to expectations. I know that from my Unfortunate Marriage.
I shouldn’t lump all men together, like weeds invading a rose garden, or a comet heading toward Earth.
But, generally, for excitement, women should study the Hubble Space Telescope and the technology there. What else is out there in our galaxy and beyond? Now, that is thrilling.
But Toran would be thrilling, too.
I thought about him naked.
Oh yes. He would be even better than the Hubble Space Telescope.
4
“I found these before I had our old house demolished.”
Toran handed me a battered cardboard box after we had fish and chips and white wine on his deck for dinner.
His view was peaceful, panoramic. The ocean spread out in the distance like a blue-black blanket with frothy lace on the ends.
“What’s in it?” I fiddled with the top button of my beige blouse. After I had showered, I had paired it with my dark brown skirt and a brown sweater with a blue, smiling whale on the left shoulder.
“Open it, but be prepared, Charlotte.”
I studied his face. He had a hard jaw and lines fanning out from his eyes. He was the kind of man who would get even more deadly handsome as he aged. “Okay. I’ll be prepared.”
Inside the box there was a stack of letters tied with straw. My name was written on the outside of each envelope.
Charlotte
Queen Charlotte
Charlotte Mackintosh
My friend, Char
Charlotty
My hands shook as I took them out. “What?” My voice was stricken. “What are these?” But I knew. I knew what they were.
“These are letters that Bridget wrote to you. She obviously never sent them. She didn’t want to tell you the truth. It was therapy for her. It was like writing to her diary, only she wrote them to you, her best friend, as she did when she was a child. I think she wanted the truth of her life written down, and that’s why she brought these letters home and placed them in the box.
“I read some, I hope you don’t mind. I was trying to find her, find out the truth of what happened. My parents weren’t honest with me at the time. They lied about where she was and why. Then they refused to talk about her at all.” He paused,
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