Black Rose

Four orgasms, for God’s sake. And Mitch was a man of his word. Stick with me, he’d said, and it won’t be the last time.
    He’d proven just that in the middle of the night.
    She’d had sex twice in one night, and that was certainly worth a red letter on her calendar.
    With John... they’d been young and hadn’t been able to get enough of each other. Even after the children had come, the sexual aspect of their marriage had been vital.
    Then it had been a long, long time before she’d allowed another man to touch her. And to be honest, none ever had. Not really, not beyond the physical.
    Bryce hadn’t. But she’d thought, for a while at least, that it was her own fault, or her own nature. She hadn’t loved him, not deep down. But she’d liked him, she’d enjoyed him, and had certainly been attracted to him.
    Stupidly, but that wasn’t the point now.
    The sex had been adequate at best, and adequate had been enough for her. She’d wanted—needed—companionship, partnership.
    Since the divorce, for a considerable time prior to it, if truth be told, she’d been celibate. Her own choice, and the right one for her.
    Until Mitch.
    Now he’d turned her inside out, and God, she was grateful. And relieved, if it came to that, to know her sex drive was in fine working condition.
    He said he was falling in love with her, and that put a little knot in her belly. Love still meant specific things to her. Marriage and family. And those were too enormous to take lightly.
    She’d never take marriage lightly again, so she could hardly take love, what she considered its precursor, lightly.
    But she could, and she would, enjoy him, and the way she felt on this spectacular evening.
    She crossed her own lawn and saw that her earliest daffodils were blooming buttery yellow. Maybe she’d go in, get her sheers, and cut some for her bedroom.
    As she approached the house, she saw Stella and Hayley on the veranda, and raised her hand in a wave.
    “I smell spring,” she said. “We’re going to want to start moving...” She trailed off as she saw their faces. “Well, don’t you two look solemn. Trouble?”
    “Not exactly. Mrs. Haggerty was in today,” Stella said.
    “Is something wrong with her?”
    “Not with her. She wondered how you were doing, though, if you were all right.”
    “Why wouldn’t I be?”
    “She was concerned the scene at the garden club meeting had upset you.”
    “Oh.” Roz shrugged. “She should know better.”
    “Why didn’t you tell us?” Stella demanded.
    “Excuse me?”
    “She said that bitch, that walking Barbie, insulted you right there in front of everybody,” Hayley cut in. “That she was spreading lies and rumors and accused you of harassing that asshole she’s hooked herself up with.”
    “You seem to have most of the facts. She should have added, if she didn’t, that Mandy came off looking foolish and shrill, and was certainly more embarrassed by the whole thing than I was.”
    “You didn’t tell us,” Stella repeated.
    “Why would I have?” The tone was aloof.
    “Because whether or not she was more embarrassed, it had to upset you. And while you’re the boss, and blah, blah, blah—”
    “Blah, blah, blah?”
    “And a little bit scary,” Stella added.
    “A little?”
    “The fear factor has diminished considerably over the past year.”
    “I’m not afraid of you,” Hayley said, then hunched her shoulders when Roz turned cool eyes to hers. “Very much.”
    “Despite us being your employees, we’re friends. Or we thought we were.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake. Girls are so much more complicated than boys.” On a long sigh, Roz plopped down on the porch swing. “Of course we’re friends.”
    “Well, if we’re friends, especially girl friends,” Hayley continued, and sat beside Roz on the swing, “you’re supposed to tell us when some skinny-assed bitch rags on you. How else are we going to know we hate her guts? How else are we going to know to think up nasty things to say about her? Like, here’s one. Did you know that seventy-three percent of women whose name ends with the i sound are bimbos?”
    Roz sat a moment. “Is that one of your factoids or did you just make it up?”
    “Okay, I made that one up, but I bet it’s true if they dot the i with a little heart—after the age of twelve. And I bet, I just bet she does. So. Bimbo.”
    “She’s just a foolish girl who believes a very smooth liar.”
    “I stand by bimbo.”
    “She had no